


what i'd be without you

by eunwoozi



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Non Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eunwoozi/pseuds/eunwoozi
Summary: Wonwoo realizes that sometimes, growing up means growing apart.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 23
Kudos: 130
Collections: Seventeen Rare Pair Fest: Round 1





	1. i didn't do it right

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SVTRarePairFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SVTRarePairFest) collection. 



> hello anon! i think i took this prompt and mashed it up too much and now it doesn't resemble anything it was supposed to, so i apologize in part for that. at the end of the day, it still is about people falling in love and having been in love, so i hope you enjoy. 
> 
> this fic is, for the most part, done, except i have to do some rigorous editing on part 2 because i wrote 10k in two weeks lmao 
> 
> [this fic now has a playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21rl5YWeDDVzneqCeFLUNR) pls enjoy
> 
> fic title is from god only knows by the beach boys  
> chapter title from pink in the night by mitski

There’s a thin pink line raised on the skin of Wonwoo’s knee. It stretches diagonally across the left kneecap, the skin around it puckered when he straightens his legs. Minghao has a matching one, across his right, a little fainter than Wonwoo’s, running a little shorter, but still clear across the stretch of his skin. Minghao had always thought it neat, when they were younger, that their first meeting gave them matching scars.

“It’s like a soul bond,” Minghao liked to say, smile wide, because he’d always been a huge romantic, even as a thirteen-year-old. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

Wonwoo had no intention of doing any such thing, matching scars or not, but he had never said that out loud. “It’s because knees are usually the first body parts to hit the ground,” Wonwoo had said the first time, because he was a teenager and he was a bit of an asshole the way that teenagers are. Minghao just shrugged, smiling, eyes curved, like he knew the truth behind what Wonwoo was saying anyways.

Minghao didn’t know though, Wonwoo realized much later. If he knew, he thinks, he wouldn’t have left.

Their second first encounter is a lot less bloody, and a lot less tears, considering that they were no longer six-year-olds who just scraped their knees. Still, just like the first time, it catches Wonwoo by surprise, and then hurt.

It’s almost infuriating, the nonchalance with which Xu Minghao comes back into his life, like a cloud passing over on a sunny day. It must catch Minghao by surprise, too, when they spot each other in the hallway, Wonwoo with his groceries in tow and Minghao carrying boxes on top of one another. It must, because Minghao spends a solid twenty seconds staring at Wonwoo like he had seen a ghost.

“Minghao,” Wonwoo breaks the silence, because it felt a little suffocating the way the name was crawling up his throat and his chest was hammering behind his ribs. What do you say to someone you’ve known your entire life, anyways?

“Wonwoo,” Minghao finally says, voice soft. He puts down the boxes by his feet, and it’s only then that Wonwoo registers the writing scrawled across the side of the boxes. ‘Kitchenware’, plastered across each side. Something in the back of Wonwoo’s mind makes the vague connection between the Lee family moving out a couple weeks ago, their three kids finally outgrowing the two bedroom apartment, and Minghao standing in front of him now. “How have you been?”

His hair is longer, Wonwoo notes. A sweet chestnut brown that catches on the sun streaming through the hallway. It curls loosely around his nape, tickling at the edges of his shoulder. His cheeks are sharper, the softness that Wonwoo remembers melted to give way to defined jawline and cheekbones. But his eyes are the same, big and brown and earnest. Always earnest, he thinks.

“Fine,” he croaks out, throat gone dry in a second. He clears his throat and forces on a smile. “I’m—I’m good. How are you?”

Minghao’s mouth opens a slight part, then raises up in a smile as well, though they don’t quite reach his eyes. “Good,” he says, short, curt. His fingers twist in his hands, and the familiarity of his movements strike sharply in Wonwoo’s chest. “I just moved back,” he adds, gesturing vaguely to the boxes piled up in the hallway. The door to his apartment is slightly ajar, propped up by another few boxes, plastic and cardboard made home on the wood floor.

Wonwoo glances back to find Minghao looking at him, a second too long before he blinks and looks just past him again. Wonwoo doesn’t really know what to say to that. _Yeah, I figured?_ or _Would you have said anything, if we never ran into each other?_ Maybe not the latter.

“I’m just down the hall,” Wonwoo settles for, nodding towards his apartment, just across the hall and two doors down.

Minghao follows his gaze and nods, that same strange expression on his face again, like he doesn’t quite understand the blanketing silence. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight onto one foot and leaning slightly against the boxes on the floor.

“Hey—uhm,” Minghao starts again, when another voice floats out from inside the apartment.

“Minghao, have you seen the scissors anywhere? I thought I packed it in my bag but I don’t—oh.” A tall figure emerges from the doorway. Wonwoo has never been short, by any means, but this guy made him feel small, not only towering, but broad. “Hello!” He greets, face breaking out into a wide grin, his teeth sharp and smile wide.

“Mingyu,” Minghao sounds slightly surprised, like he expected him to be in a different place entirely. Mingyu emerges from the doorway to join Minghao, resting his arms on top of Minghao’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Wonwoo’s eyes follow his movements involuntarily. Minghao, he notes, easily shoves him off, like it’s a familiar routine. There’s a faint trace of a smile that lingers on his lips as he does so. Mingyu doesn’t even blink, just shifts his balance back to his feet and smiles wider at Wonwoo. “Wonwoo, this is Mingyu.” Mingyu reaches out a hand to shake and Wonwoo instinctively takes it. “Mingyu, this is Wonwoo. He’s…” Minghao pauses, flicking his gaze over to Wonwoo again and catches his eye for a split second. “He’s an old friend.”

There’s a flicker that passes by Mingyu’s face, eyebrows slightly raised. “Nice to meet you, Wonwoo.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Wonwoo grips his hand for probably much longer than necessary. He’s never quite sure when to let go.

Mingyu does a once-over of Wonwoo, lingering on the bags in his hand. The dots must connect in his head, because his eyes widen just slightly. “Do you live here too?”

Wonwoo tilts his head towards his door and nods, plastering on another smile. “Yeah, in 303.” Mingyu just beams, turning excitedly to Minghao, who returns a small smile, gaze not quite breaking from Wonwoo. “Welcome to the building,” Wonwoo adds.

“Thanks!” Mingyu grins. “We’ve been apartment-hunting for months and luckily we found this apartment just before we had to move.”

A stroke of luck, maybe. The universe’s karmic retribution for Jeon Wonwoo, most likely.

Wonwoo nods, adjusting his grip on the plastic bags pinching the tips of his fingers. “I—uh—have ice cream melting,” he lifts his hand, giving the bags a little swing, “so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Bye! It was nice to meet you!” Mingyu waves cheerily, grin still wide.

_I’ll leave you to it?_ Wonwoo inwardly cringes, but his grave has been dug, and his bed has been made, so he gives them another smile, and a wave, and heads down the hall. He doesn’t stop to look at Minghao.

“Wonwoo,” Minghao says again when Wonwoo reaches his door, keying the code for the lock. When he turns around, Minghao is still standing in front of his door, and he looks surprised, like he didn’t expect Wonwoo to turn around at all. “I’ll see you,” he says, the end of the phrase pitched, like it’s a question.

It catches Wonwoo by surprise. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “I’ll see you around,” he returns. Minghao’s face blooms into a smile at that, the corner of his lips pink and curling and his teeth bright and grinning.

“Okay,” Minghao says, a small laugh escaping him. “See you around,” he affirms.

* * *

* * *

“Yah.”

“Jeon Wonwoo.” A poke to his cheek.

“Wonwoo-yah.” A tap to his shoulder.

“Nonu-yah.” A smack to his arm.

“Ow,” Wonwoo whines, rubbing at his arm, cracking one eye open. Minghao’s standing over his bed, hands on his hips, the picture of sternness save for the slight curl of his lips.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

“Five more minutes,” Wonwoo groans, pulling the covers over his head.

“We’re already running late,” Minghao huffs, though there’s no edge in his voice. “Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed up gaming with Seungcheol-hyung.”

“We were on a roll,” Wonwoo mumbles against the covers, like it was an acceptable excuse.

“Up, up up,” Minghao drums his hands on Wonwoo.

Wonwoo slips his leg out from underneath the cover and kicks it up at Minghao, but Minghao catches his feet with one swift wave of his arm, capturing in a deadlock. Minghao is annoyingly strong, tugging at Wonwoo’s legs and managing to drag half of his body off of the bed.

“Okay, okay,” Wonwoo relents, opening his eyes and squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through his window. When Minghao loosens his grip, Wonwoo makes one last maneuver to touch his feet to the side of Minghao’s cheek, and Minghao recoils, nearly dropping Wonwoo. It’s worth it though, the expression of pure disgust on Minghao’s face as he wipes the side of his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Disgusting. Your feet are like ice blocks,” Minghao glares at him, still wiping at his cheek. Wonwoo grins up at him, jamming his glasses on his face.

“You just run abnormally warm,” Wonwoo plants his feet on the floor, stretching his arms above his head, yawning. He catches Minghao’s eyes when he opens them again, and Minghao stares at him for a beat before turning around and heading out of the room.

“Hurry up and change,” Minghao says, not turning back. “I made kimchi fried rice.”

Wonwoo gasps, only half exaggeratedly. “You should have led with that.” He yells after the retreating figure. Minghao only waves his hands dismissively.

“If you don’t hurry, I’ll eat it all.” He says calmly, voice retreating into their kitchen.

“Don’t you dare.” Wonwoo yells down the hallway, but he can’t help the smile that overcomes him anyways.

* * *

There’s a knock on his door, followed by some clamoring and then the beeping of the keypad and the lock. Wonwoo barely has a chance to get up before Soonyoung swings open the door triumphantly, holding up bags of takeout in his hands.

Wonwoo just sighs, stretching out his feet from the sofa and placing his laptop gingerly to the side.

“What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to come in?” Wonwoo helps him carry the bag to the kitchen table.

“What’s the point of waiting when I know your keycode?” Soonyoung says cheerily, toeing off his shoes and setting the other bags down with him. There’s a clatter against the wood that indicates way too many soju bottles for Wonwoo’s liking.

“The keycode is for emergencies,” Wonwoo huffs, taking out the three, four, seven?? bottles of soju on the table. “Who else is coming?”

“What?” Soonyoung was already somewhere in his kitchen, rustling around for utensils and bowls.

“Why did you get seven bottles of soju?” Wonwoo sighs, the bottles clacking around when he holds them up in his hands.

“Oh,” Soonyoung blinks. “It was on sale,” he says happily. “It would be like losing money if I _didn’t_ buy it.”

“That’s not how it works,” Wonwoo murmurs, taking all but one into his arms and stacking them in the fridge.

“Alright, we get it, you used to major in business in college,” Soonyoung sighs, exaggerated. “What would we do without your expertise—ow!” Wonwoo aims a kick at his legs on the way back to the kitchen table and comes out triumphant.

“I can’t have you passing out and hanging out by my toilet all night again,” He gives Soonyoung a look. Soonyoung, in true fashion, has the audacity to pout, like he was the aggrieved, and not Wonwoo, locked out of his own bathroom despite Soonyoung’s being down the hall.

When he sits back down at the kitchen table, Soonyoung has already portioned out the jjajangmyeon and was working furiously on mixing it together. Wonwoo does the same with his own bowl.

“When did you meet the new neighbor?” Soonyoung shoves a mouthful into his mouth, sauce lingering on the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo feels something expand into the caverns of his chest. He swallows the rest of his noodles before answering. “What?”

“The new neighbor,” Soonyoung explains in between bites. “In 308. He saw me just now and asked me if I was your roommate.” He wipes at the corner of his lips with the back of his hands.

“Which one?” Wonwoo asks, passing a napkin to Soonyoung.

Soonyoung pats his mouth, but neglects the sauce remnants on his hands, much to Wonwoo’s chagrin. “There’s more than one?” he asks, eyebrows raised, voice muffled through the napkin. “I think he said his name was Mingyu.”

Wonwoo takes a long sip of his drink. “He’s an old friend,” he says, finally. “Not Mingyu,” he adds. “The other one.” He taps his chopsticks on the side of the bowl. “Minghao.”

Soonyoung’s eyebrows raise a little higher. “ _Minghao_ , Minghao?” He gives Wonwoo a long look.

“It’s not—,” Wonwoo says, strangled, ”But—yeah,” He nods, shoveling some more noodles into his mouth to avoid elaborating.

“Oh.” Soonyoung just chews thoughtfully on a piece of pickled radish. He’s still looking at Wonwoo, even after he’s finished with his radish. “Do you wanna talk about it?” He asks, blinking carefully.

His tone is gentle, and it makes Wonwoo want to crawl under the covers a bit. It's not awkward—Wonwoo has seen Soonyoung cry, and Soonyoung has seen Wonwoo after too many glasses of maekju—but a weird heaviness settles on them, and Wonwoo is desperate for it to lift. 

“Not particularly,” Wonwoo mumbles through a mouthful of noodles.

“Okay,” Soonyoung nods, twisting open a bottle of soju and pouring out two shots. “You wanna hear about this nightmare student in my class today?”

Wonwoo gives him a smile, more thankful than ever for Soonyoung’s capacity to talk until his mouth runs dry. “Was it Shinwoo again?”

“It _was_ Shinwoo!” Soonyoung groans loudly, downing a shot. “So I was showing the entire class this one move, and then he has the audacity…”

* * *

Seungcheol shows up late, huge sunglasses over his eyes despite it being a cloudy day, and hunches over immediately the moment he slides in the seat across from Wonwoo. He takes off his sunglasses to red-rimmed eyes and a horribly weary look.

“Bad night?” Wonwoo raises an eyebrow when Seungcheol winces at the screech of the milk frother, pushing over a cup of coffee.

“Joshua and Soonyoung are maniacs,” is the only thing he says before he gladly takes the cup of coffee from Wonwoo’s hands.

“We could have done this another time.” Wonwoo watches as he downs nearly half the cup in one go.

He dismisses Wonwoo with a wave, gulping down another sip of coffee. “No, I needed to get my ass out of bed or I would have been stuck there forever.” He straightens up in his seat, grimacing when the patch of sunlight hits his face. “Did you hear?”

“What?”

“Minghao’s back.” Seungcheol blinks at him. “Like,” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks out wildly, slightly mirroring his expression. “In Seoul. For good, I think.”

Wonwoo pushes at the foam on his latte with the plastic stirrer. So Minghao did tell people, he thinks. Was he on the list of people he would have told? Wonwoo wonders, if they never ran into each other in the hallway? Or would Wonwoo have had to find out through a hungover Seungcheol a few days later?

“He texted me last night,” Seungcheol adds, “Right when I was about to head out. I wanted to text you,” Seungcheol frowns, fingers twisting over his cup, “But I thought you should hear it in person.”

“Thanks, hyung.”

Seungcheol just gives him another look, eyes big and worried. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I—er—I actually ran into him, a few days ago,” Wonwoo takes a sip of his coffee, and it sits bitter in his mouth. “He’s my new neighbor.”

“He—what?!” Seungcheol says much too loudly, drawing the ire of the other patrons in the shop, even surprisingly himself with the volume, as he winces and settles back down in his seat. “He’s your new neighbor?” He repeats, quieter, and Wonwoo can only nod.

“So you—did you talk to him?” Seungcheol asks.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, turning the handle of the mug in his hands. He’s not completely sure that what they did necessarily counts as conversation, but he doesn’t think it matters that much.

Seungcheol just sits there in silence, looking at Wonwoo with an expression that’s reminiscent of these past few days. It’s pity, Wonwoo thinks. Something like that. Soonyoung had given him that look too.

“Did you—” Seungcheol speaks up again, but then bites his lips, shrinking back down in his seat. He swallows it down, even if Wonwoo knew the end of that question anyways. “Are you alright?” Seungcheol finally asks, tentative, as if his expression the past few minutes hadn’t screamed it. His big doe eyes are a bit too much for Wonwoo to bear, and he doesn’t think he can look Seungcheol in the eyes.

Wonwoo takes another silent breath, and exhales. “Yeah,” he says, calm, composed. Practiced. “I think I am.”

"Why didn't you tell me?" Seungcheol gives him a look, eyebrows furrowed. He's not angry, Wonwoo knows, but he can't help but shrink a little in his seat.

"I'm fine, hyung, I promise." Wonwoo swears, holding a hand over his heart and giving him a half-hearted grin. "It's been years." 

"Is that why you didn't say anything until I brought it up?" Seungcheol crosses his arms over his chest, looking straight through him. 

Wonwoo drops his hands to the table, fiddling with the handle of his mug again. "I don't know, it's in the past, isn't it?" He pokes at the foam, watches as it melts into his drink. "I should be over it, don't you think?" 

"If you are," Seungcheol says softly, reaching over to grasp his hands in an earnest hold, "I don't think you would be asking."

* * *

* * *

“I got in.” Minghao plops down in front of him, grinning from ear to ear.

“You got in?” Wonwoo repeats, not looking up from his textbook, scratching his head at the homework problem.

“I got in.” Minghao repeats again, looking at Wonwoo expectantly. Wonwoo looks up, blinking at Minghao, pushing annual percentage rates and rates of returns out of his head. It takes a moment for him to register it, then it all clicks in his head.

“Holy shit.” Wonwoo says quietly, and Minghao just grins wider, the apples of his cheeks high and pink. “Holy shit,” Wonwoo repeats, a bit louder, standing up abruptly and walking over to him. “ _You got in_.” He repeats, shaking his shoulders, and Minghao starts laughing, the air warm with smiles. “When did they—”

“Just now.” Minghao says, grin still wide, shaking his phone. “They called me, and I thought it was a prank call, but then the woman started speaking in French, and then I got the email, too.”

Wonwoo just engulfs him in a hug, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “I knew you would.” Minghao hugs back, tighter. “We have to go celebrate, right now.” Wonwoo moves to grab his jacket from the back of the chair, swinging it over his shoulders, but Minghao catches his arm.

“You have to go study for your midterms.” Wonwoo frowns at him, tugging his arms through his jacket. “ _I_ have to go study for my midterms.” Wonwoo huffs, but gives up reluctantly, dropping his jacket back down.

“Okay, but we’re going next weekend,” Wonwoo says, plopping back down in his seat. “Rager at Seokmin’s.”

Minghao smiles, eyes shining, and nods. “Does he know that?”

Wonwoo waves his hands nonchalantly, shrugging. “I’ll mention it.” Minghao laughs, head thrown back, and Wonwoo gets caught on the way that his hair flops gently across his face. It takes him a moment, throat going dry, to tear his eyes away. “When does the program start?” He clears his throat.

Minghao pulls out his phone again, thumbing at the screen. “I forget, but it’s not until next fall.” He scrolls through his emails, and lets out a triumphant noise. “August 12th.”

That wasn’t for another six months, but something in Wonwoo’s chest twists at the notion. “You’ll probably fly out a little earlier?” Wonwoo asks.

Minghao hums, putting his phone back down. “Yeah, probably.” he settles down across from Wonwoo. “My mom will want to make a family trip out of it.” He leans forward in his seat, placing his hands on the table and settling his chin in the crook of his elbows. “You gonna miss me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a grin.

The longest he had ever gone without seeing Minghao was the summer after 5th grade, when Minghao went back home to Anshan for vacation. He had been gone for a total of 27 days, and Wonwoo’s mother had made it very clear to him that he was not to call Minghao, even if he did leave his number, saying something about international phone fees. Wonwoo didn’t quite understand what that meant, just that he was aptly miserable without his company. Maybe he should have made better friends with the other kids in the neighborhood, but he had never needed their company before. Minghao was always more than enough. When he finally returned home, Wonwoo had tackled him in a hug that ended with both of them in a pile on the floor. Minghao had come back slightly taller than Wonwoo remembered, and tanner, too, the days spent outside giving him a golden glow. His smile when he saw Wonwoo, though, was the same. Eyes bright, cheeks high, laugh lines etched into his skin.

Wonwoo snorts, looking back down at his textbook, though the numbers just go through his head. “Of course I will, dickhead,” he murmurs.

“What was that?” Minghao tilts his head, raising one eyebrow high and putting a palm behind his ear. Wonwoo huffs, biting down a smile, making sure to shoot Minghao a glare. Minghao just grins wider. “I can’t hear you.”

“I said yes, asshole.”

“I’ll take it.” Minghao just gives another hum of satisfaction, resting the side of his face on his arms. It pushes up his cheeks, and his hair flops annoyingly over his eyes. Wonwoo reaches out to tuck the loose strands behind his ear, and Minghao just lets his eyes flutter shut when Wonwoo grazes the curve of his ear, smiling into his arms. It makes Wonwoo freeze, temporarily, and he retracts his hand, instead pushing his own glasses back up and looking back down at his laptop screen. “You should come.”

“What?”

“You should come with me.”

“To Paris?” Wonwoo asks, slightly bewildered.

“Yeah, we can go sightseeing. The Louvre, the catacombs. All the hits. ”

“Oh.” Because that’s all that Minghao had meant—that Wonwoo should come and sightsee with him, before he leaves for three years. And not—well. “Yeah,” Wonwoo nods, agreeing. “Art and dead people. I’m in.”

“You’re serious?” Minghao blinks at him in surprise, like he wasn’t the one to suggest it in the first place.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo meets his gaze, grinning. “Always. Congratulations, Haohao.”

Minghao beams at him, a small airy laugh escaping him. “Okay—” he says, a little breathlessly, “Paris.”

* * *

Minghao moves in at the end of August, when the ends of the sweltering summer heat mellows out to the layered cool that comes with the beginning of fall.

Wonwoo _does not_ deliberately leave his apartment at varying times of the day to throw away trash or recycling or get the mail and _does not_ deliberately take a little longer than usual to go back to his apartment, so he _does not_ see everyone who could possibly live in this building three times over, with the exception of the person that he _does not_ want to see, because that _would not_ be the actions of someone who is over it, and he is, almost certainly, over it. 

He _does_ see Mingyu more times than he can even count, maybe a side effect of the loitering that he _was not_ doing. He learns that Mingyu had been in the same program as Minghao, in Paris, and that now, he's an assistant curator of sorts at SeMA, right in the heart of downtown, and he also works in their outreach program to make art more accessible to the public. And it—well—it’s very Minghao, or at least, he comes to a choking realization, the Minghao he knew.

He tries not to let the biting voice in the back of his mind rear its ugly head, because Mingyu is nice, extremely so, and always gives Wonwoo the new exhibition brochures, even slipping it into his mailbox when he doesn’t catch him in the hallway. The brochures even start piling up on his kitchen table, and he can’t say that it doesn’t tempt him to go. He thinks Bohyuk would enjoy it, even if his younger brother has unfortunately adopted the aloof “I can’t be bothered” attitude that strikes teenagers the moment they enter high school.

Mingyu practically vibrates with excitement when Wonwoo makes a comment about bringing Bohyuk along when he comes to visit during break, clamoring about youths and targeted demographics. He ends up gripping his hands with an earnest hold and roping Wonwoo into a pinky promise, like they were ten year olds on a playground.

So he ends up befriending Mingyu, in a strange turn of events. When Wonwoo makes an off-handed comment about how his and Soonyoung’s diet consists primarily of take-out food and energy drinks, Mingyu gives him a look of abject horror, and then promptly invites himself over to dinner.

He shows up at Wonwoo’s doorsteps lugging about four bags of groceries with him, Soonyoung surprisingly trailing behind him with another two bags of what seems to just be snacks. Wonwoo gives him an inquisitive look, eyebrows raised, but Soonyoung just gives him a flushed grin.

Wonwoo _does not_ linger at the door and he _does not_ linger in the hallways for anyone else that might show up before closing the door behind him. When he turns around, Mingyu is looking at him, head slightly tilted and a strange smile on his lips. Wonwoo averts his eyes and grabs the groceries from him, heading towards the kitchen.

“Your apartment layout is similar to Soonyoung’s,” Mingyu comments, which just makes the gears in Wonwoo’s brain grind to a screeching halt as he turns to look at Soonyoung with an expression that hopefully says _When did Kim Mingyu come to your apartment?_ Soonyoung, however, deliberately avoids Wonwoo’s eyes, focusing intently on stacking the bags of snacks on the kitchen table.

“Probably because they’re both a one bedroom,” Wonwoo says slowly, still staring blankly at Soonyoung. Soonyoung just makes a noncommittal sound, nodding, ears red.

He watches as Mingyu commandeers his kitchen, pulling out pots and pans and knives and cutting boards. Dinner is apparently kimchi jjigae _and_ bibim guksu, because Kim Mingyu would never do anything half-assed.

“Minghao’s busy with work,” Mingyu says casually, unloading the groceries on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t asked, but Mingyu had told him anyways, in that weird way that makes Wonwoo think that he knows more than Wonwoo would like him to know.

He clears his throat, “That’s too bad.”

Mingyu just nods, and Wonwoo doesn’t even know where Mingyu pulled his apron from. “He’s in one of those moods where he can’t focus on anything but work,” he sighs. “You know how it is,” he adds.

He does, Wonwoo thinks. Minghao cooped up in his room, or at the studio, hunched over a painting for hours at a time, barely looking up even when the sun sets around him, plunging him into darkness save for a singular light overhead. It’s always been a bit ironic, since Minghao had always been the one telling Wonwoo to drink more water and eat more vegetables or sleep earlier and play less video games.

The feeling rises up again, the overwhelming strangeness of déjà vu and longing for something long gone. Wonwoo swallows it down. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

* * *

Exactly three weeks after Minghao moves in, he shows up on Wonwoo’s doorsteps.

Wonwoo wakes up at 7AM to a sharp knock on his door, and he can’t even be bothered to look in the mirror before he rolls out of bed heads to the door. He doesn’t know who he expects, but all of that slips from his head when he opens the door.

Minghao just gives him a small smile, his hair tied back and his hands still splattered with paint. He must have stayed up overnight working, he realizes. There were a few loose strands falling into his face, sticking to his cheeks. Wonwoo has the urge to reach out and tuck them behind his ears, the way he used to.

“Hi,” Minghao says. His fingers twist in his hands, and Wonwoo realizes that Minghao’s nervous, though he can’t fathom why that would be.

“Hey.”

“Did you—”

“Is there—”

They both stop and stare at each other, and it’s so _awkward_ , Wonwoo wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“You can go first,” Minghao says, gesturing so _politely_ Wonwoo thinks he might as well be strangling him.

“No it’s okay—I—I just wanted to ask if you needed something.”

“Oh,” Minghao says, as if just realizing that he was the one that showed up on Wonwoo’s doorstep in the first place. “Mingyu said you were heading home for Chuseok,” he says, “I am too, if you needed a ride.”

Wonwoo blinks at him, thrown off-kilter, and his mouth moves even before his brain gets a chance to process it. “Yeah, that would be great,” the words tumble out, and he almost regrets it, except Minghao gives him a beaming smile and that strange feeling crawls to his chest again.

“Okay,” Minghao nods, “Great! See you Thursday morning?” He asks, retreating from his doorway, waving brightly.

Wonwoo nods and Minghao just grins at him again, before turning back down the hall to his own apartment.

It’s only when he passes his bathroom mirror on the way back to his room that he realizes he’s been wearing Minghao’s old shirt.

* * *

* * *

“What do you want to do after all of this?”

“Hmm?” Minghao looks up from their history textbook. “Maybe chicken?”

“No,” Wonwoo sighs, lying back down on his bed. “Like after high school.” He waves his hand airily. “In _life_.”

Minghao laughs, “What’s with the sudden existential crisis?” He narrowly dodges a pillow from Wonwoo and easily tosses it back. “College, right? That’s why we’re studying.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo exhales, staring at the ceiling light until spots begin to form in his eyes. “But what are you going to major in? What about after college?”

Minghao hums, leaning back against the bed frame. His hair flops neatly on top of the mattress, waves of blonde and pink and blue standing out starkly against the navy blue bedsheets. “I want to paint.”

“Really?” Wonwoo shifts to turn on his side, combing his fingers absentmindedly through Minghao’s hair. It had stayed soft, even through the tumultuous 48 hours of intense bleach and hair dye they had subjected Minghao’s scalp to a few weeks ago. “Art?”

“Yes,” Minghao huffs. “Don’t tell me that it’s not practical because I’ve already heard it—”

“Of course not—who do you think I—Minghao,” Wonwoo climbs off the bed and slides down to the floor, setting himself in front of Minghao, legs crossed underneath him so they could both fit in the narrow space between the table and the bed. “You are incredible. Your art is phenomenal. Anyone with half a brain would agree with me.” He places a hand on his knee, leaning in, giving him a crooked grin, and Minghao is warm against his palm, even through the thin layer of cotton, “You’ll be like the next Picasso, except, like, not an asshole.”

Minghao smiles back, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, Wonwoo-yah.” He scoots back a little, tearing his gaze away, clearing his throat and looking down at his hands.

“What did your parents say?” Wonwoo hums. He shuffles back so they’re sitting side by side, their shoulders brushing against one another.

“I haven’t told them yet,” Minghao says, a bit quieter. “I don’t know how they’ll take it,” he says, a quiet tremor ringing through his voice.

Wonwoo nods. “You want me with you?”

Minghao looks up at the ceiling, nodding, “Will you?”

“Of course,” Wonwoo knocks their knees together. “Always.” He holds up his hand and Minghao takes it, squeezing their hands together. He turns to look at him, and Wonwoo returns it, giving him a wide grin. He smiles back, dimples forming deep in his cheeks.

There’s a brief moment, and then it’s gone before Wonwoo even registers it, Minghao dropping his hands and turning back to lean against the side of the bed.

“What about you?” Minghao asks, stretching out his legs in front of him. Wonwoo does the same, his legs sticking out just a little bit longer. He kicks his foot lightly against Minghao’s, and gets a sharp kick in return.

“Ow,” Wonwoo cries out in protest, and draws up his knees to his chest, pouting. “That hurt.”

“Shut up.” Minghao snorts, doing the same with his legs.

Wonwoo hums, leaning his head against Minghao’s shoulders, finding the optimal space in the crook of his neck. “I think I want to be a writer.”

“Yeah?” Minghao doesn’t move, but Wonwoo can feel him breathing in and out, a steady beat.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo nods slightly. “Kim-sunsaengnim said he liked my creative writing piece. He wanted to talk to me about it.” Minghao hums, and a deep vibration moves through him.

“You should.” Minghao says, leaning a little into Wonwoo.

“I will.” Baek-sunsaengnim, their homeroom teacher, had told him about it, when they had to discuss their future goals during homeroom. She had looked at him with wide eager eyes, clasping his hands together and vehemently repeating what their language teacher had said to her. _Kim-sunsaengnim and I could contact some writing programs at the colleges you’re applying to. Have you talked to your parents about it?_ He had told her he would, and she gave him a real warm smile, and patted his shoulders in the nurturing way that makes students accidentally call her ‘mom’ in the middle of class, before sending him off. “I think my dad wants me to go into business administration, though, or something like that.” Wonwoo stretches out his hands in front of him, curling his fingers in and out. “I wouldn’t mind that either.”

Minghao stops him, taking his hands in his own and clasping them together. Even if Wonwoo’s legs were slightly longer, Minghao had bigger hands, fingers and palms engulfing his own. “Is that what you want to do?”

Wonwoo watches as Minghao rubs circles around his knuckles. “I wouldn’t mind it,” Wonwoo just says again. “I’m good at math.”

He looks up at Wonwoo, head cocked and eyebrows slightly raised. He bites his cheeks, which he usually does when he’s frustrated. “Being good at something and wanting to do something are two different things,” Minghao says quietly, still rubbing circles into his hands.

Wonwoo gives him a half-hearted smile. “I know.” He pulls his hand back into his own lap, still warm, tilting his head up at Minghao. “I’ll talk it over with them. Don’t start nagging me.”

Minghao looks down at him, scanning his face, eyes dropping momentarily before shoving Wonwoo’s head off his shoulder, scoffing. “Dumbass.”

Wonwoo just laughs, letting gravity pull him down to the floor. He stretches his legs across Minghao’s lap, resting his head on top of his hands. Minghao makes a scrunched up expression, but doesn’t push him off, resting his arms across Wonwoo’s legs.

“Will you?” Wonwoo stares up at the ceiling, but gives a quick glance down to Minghao. He's already looking at him, expression unreadable.

“Of course,” Minghao says, eyes crinkling up in a smile. “Always.”

* * *

It’s because traveling to Changwon during Chuseok by public transportation is truly one of the nine circles of hell, Wonwoo says to himself. Surely, Dante Alighieri would agree that spending three hours in a metal box with someone you haven’t spoken to in three years is preferable to being stuck in a metal tube for approximately five hours crowded up against other strangers. Surely, he would.

“How have you been?” Is the first thing that Minghao says to him, approximately 45 minutes into their car ride. Wonwoo had pretended to be taking a nap for most of it, and Minghao pretended to believe him, which worked until the sun reared its head from behind the cloud cover to shine directly over Wonwoo’s eyes.

“You’ve asked that already,” Wonwoo notes. It had been the first thing they said to each other this morning, exchanging courtesies until they exhausted it.

Minghao’s eyes widen a little, and he chances a glance over at Wonwoo. He visibly relaxes, though, when Wonwoo shoots him a small smile.

“Sorry,” Minghao laughs. “I just—” he says, turning his eyes back onto the road, and then trails off. Wonwoo knows what he means by that, anyways.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says softly. Conversation had never been hard for them, not since they first met as kids, and not for a single second after that, not until— “Where do you work now?” He asks, not wanting to dwell.

Minghao brightens, shoulders relaxing. “I’m freelance, mostly. I’m working on a commission actually. A client wanted me to do a mural wall in their Bucheon office, so most of my time has been spent on that.”

That would explain why Wonwoo hadn't seen him around much. He doesn't know why his chest unravels at the thought.

“Do you have pictures?”

Minghao hums, nodding, pulling his phone from the center console, alternating glances at the road and his phone as he tries to unlock it.

“Here—give me—” Wonwoo reaches out, mostly out of instinct, primarily occupied with not ending up in a fender bender in the middle of Seoul traffic, and Minghao easily hands it over, their hands briefly brushing. It’s warm, even in the cold morning chill of autumn.

“The passcode is 11—”

“—07,” Wonwoo finishes, fingers already reflexively punching in the passcode.

“You remember.” He sounds a little surprised.

It takes a moment for Wonwoo to register that. It came partly from reflex, honestly, not that he would forget his birthday, anyways.

“Muscle memory,” he murmurs, instead.

The mural is huge, which Wonwoo supposes is the definition of a mural, but it stands almost twice as tall as Minghao, and spans three times as wide. It’s only half done, but the paint stands out vibrantly, even against the stark white walls.

“What do you think?” Minghao glances briefly over at him again. His elbows are high, tensing, and his fingers tap idly against the steering wheel.

“The yellow,” Wonwoo says, finally. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” Minghao brightens, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo nods, looking at the mural again. A wide stroke of sunflower yellow paint, across the wall. “It feels hopeful,” he says. “Happy,” he adds.

Minghao just beams at him again, cheeks high. “That’s what I wanted,” he says, sounding a little relieved. “I was afraid it was a little too much.”

Wonwoo ponders, swiping between the pictures. “What, too much hope?”

“I mean, partly,” the corner of his lips turn down, lost in thought. “I was worried it felt a little inauthentic, somehow.”

”Is it a bad thing to have too much hope?”

”Don’t you think so?”

Wonwoo shakes his head slowly. “I think sometimes, hope is the only thing that keeps us going.”

They reach a stop light, and Minghao turns to him, blinking softly. “You're a romantic now.”

Wonwoo turns to look at him too, and they make brief eye contact before Wonwoo snorts a laugh, and Minghao breaks out into short laughter too.

“Shut up.” Wonwoo just says in between breaths of laughter.

“What did I say?” Minghao assumes an offended tone, even if his lips curl into a smile.

“You’re clearly making fun of me,” Wonwoo huffs, making sure Minghao catches his exaggerated eye roll.

“I meant it in a nice way,” Minghao matches his tone. He turns to Wonwoo, and his smile turns gentle, voice dropping a little. “You’ve changed,” he says, and it’s sincere.

Wonwoo doesn’t expect that, and Minghao is looking at him too—closely, the way he used to. “Three years is a long time.”

“It is,” Minghao agrees, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Do you think I’ve changed?”

“I don’t know.” _I don’t think I know you, not anymore_ , he thinks. “I think it would be weird if you didn’t.”

There’s a brief silence, and Wonwoo takes a glance at Minghao, but he’s staring straight ahead at the road. “I know French now, does that count?” Minghao jokes, tone light.

“I would argue that that makes you a worse person,” Wonwoo replies, deadpan, and then has to dodge when Minghao swings a hand towards his arm, laughing. “Joking, of course. Very useful when talking about impressionist artists and ordering at French restaurants, of which there are an abundance in Seoul,” he continues in the same tone.

Minghao says something under his breath, but it sounds French and vaguely familiar, and Wonwoo knows he does it on purpose, because the only words Wonwoo can recognize are curse words, from their brief stint of trying to get Minghao fluent in 6 months.

“I understood that,” Wonwoo tells him, matter-of-fact.

”Doesn’t that make you a worse person too?” Minghao raises his eyebrows, smirk curling on his lips.

Wonwoo narrows his eyes at him, but he can’t help but laugh anyways.

“Checkmate,” Minghao hums cheerily.

“How have you been?” Minghao asks again, after a lapsed silence. They’ve almost cleared out of the urban sprawl of Seoul, as traffic lightens and they’re no longer bumper to bumper on the road out of the city.

“Already asked that, remember?”

Minghao rolls his eyes again, and raises a hand towards Wonwoo. The familiarity of everything almost throws Wonwoo for a loop. “You know what I mean. How’s work? Are you still at your firm?”

“Ah,” Wonwoo exhales. “I quit, actually. A while ago.”

Minghao just raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo crosses his arms, leaning back against the headrest. “I’m working at a publishing company.”

“Oh!” Minghao exclaims, continually turning to look at Wonwoo with a wide-eyed look.

Wonwoo quite honestly can’t handle his gaze, feeling himself grow warm despite the cool morning chill. “Keep your eyes on the road,” Wonwoo murmurs.

Minghao does, though he drops one of his hands from the wheel and reaches over to grasp Wonwoo’s, giving it a soft squeeze. Wonwoo’s briefly paralyzed, and he barely has a chance to process it before Minghao pulls his hand back. “I’m really proud of you, Wonwoo-yah.” He says, warm, comforting.

“It’s just an editorial assistant position,” Wonwoo mumbles.

“But still—” Minghao raises his voice a little. “You’re happier, aren’t you?”

It’s such an arbitrary concept. “I don’t know.”

Minghao’s eyebrows furrow. “No?”

“I don't know,” Wonwoo says slowly. “Sometimes it’s nice to do what I like and get paid for it. But other times,” he exhales, “I don’t know. It feels too much like work, and it’s ruining what I like to do.”

Minghao nods, frowning. He bites down on his lips again. “Do you regret it?” Minghao asks, quietly.

“Regret what? Quitting a shitty job that I hated in a field that I didn’t care for?” His voice rises unintentionally, and he regrets it the moment Minghao winces, shoulders tensing. “Sorry, I didn't mean to—” he says, quieter, taking a deep breath. “I don’t," he exhales. "I think I would have been more miserable,” he adds.

“I don't think that's the same as being happier,” Minghao says softly.

"No," he agrees. "Not quite."

"I'm sorry," Minghao adds. 

It wells up in his chest, a bit. “It’s in the past,” Wonwoo dismisses.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt you,” Minghao just says, sincere.

Wonwoo doesn't know what this is, or what they're doing, or why Minghao hadn't spoken to him in three years and then showed up on his doorstep and had asked to be stuck in traffic with him on the way home to Changwon. It feels strange, like he's in a hazy trance that he just quite can't shake. Trapped in this time that's already slipped through his fingers and he's still trying to desperately hold on, like hands onto water. 

* * *

It takes them two hours longer than expected to get home, and his mother sends him to the kitchen to help with food preparations almost as soon as he sets his foot inside the door. In contrast, she fawns over Minghao for nearly ten minutes in the doorway, insisting that he at least have lunch, despite his polite protests. He only manages to wrangle out of it with a promise to come back tomorrow and do a proper visit, and Wonwoo just gives him a shit-eating grin from behind the counter, making no attempt to rescue him from his mother’s grasps. Minghao just glares at him before he finally manages to leave, and Wonwoo makes a mental note not to visit Minghao’s home alone.

“Minghao’s grown up so well, hasn’t he?” His mother asks, voice cheery, peeling a radish. “So handsome, and so tall now, too.”

“What about me?” Wonwoo turns to her, grinning.

She just frowns at him, tilting her head, as if she was very seriously considering."Too skinny.”

“Mom,” he whines. “You don’t think Minghao’s too skinny?”

“At least Minghao doesn’t refuse to eat his vegetables,” she quips. When Wonwoo just gives her an offended look, mouth open, she just laughs. “Am I wrong?”

“I eat my vegetables,” he grumbles, grabbing another carrot to peel. “I eat the nationally recommended serving every day.”

“Kimchi in your kimchi fried rice and pickled radish sides don’t count,” she says without hesitation. “How are you going to bring home a daughter-in-law to me looking like that?”

She’s only half-joking, Wonwoo knows. It becomes less and less of a joke every year though, as he approaches thirty, “the prime age”, she calls it, like he was a rib-eye steak ripe for searing.

“Do you remember Mrs. Son’s daughter? She just graduated from university and I think she’s working in Seoul right now. I could—”

“Mom.” Wonwoo says, and it comes out a little louder than he means to. He lowers his voice a little, shooting her a faint smile. “I actually broke up with someone recently,” he says, and it’s really only half a lie. Saerom was fun to hang out with, but they both decided pretty early in that they were better off just as friends, and that was approximately 6 months ago. He wouldn’t even call what they were doing dating, but his mother doesn’t need to know that. “I don’t really want to be set up right now, okay?”

His mother gives him a long look, but nods. “Alright. I expect kids in five years time, though.”

He only knows that she’s joking when she gives him a teasing smile, and he just snorts. “Why do you want a baby in the family when we already have Bohyuk?” His mother laughs at that, and then shifts the topic to neighborhood gossip. He gladly listens, even through the third divorce story.

* * *

He doesn’t know what compels him to do it—something about being home with his parents for too long reminds him too much of high school, and he feels a little too suffocated—the crushing weight of expectations, and all that. The two beers he had during dinner might also contribute something. He sneaks out of the house after dinner, crossing the street to Minghao’s house and into their backyard. It’s only when he has one foot in the garden and sees the lights in the kitchen that he realizes Minghao might not even be in his room, and that Wonwoo isn’t a scrawny teenager anymore and could possibly be mistaken for a home intruder. He takes his chances though because Minghao’s light is on his room, and he knocks sharply at his window.

Minghao peeks through his curtains with a bewildered look, but visibly relaxes when he sees Wonwoo. He unlocks the windows and lets him crawl through. Wonwoo doesn’t think he’s grown much since he was 18, but the window seems to be smaller than he remembers and he accidentally pulls a muscle in his back trying to twist himself in, falling unceremoniously onto Minghao’s floor. He stares up at the plastic stars still taped onto the ceiling, the room unchanged from his memories.

“Are you okay?” Minghao’s head moves into his field of vision, blinking down at him.

“Think I pulled something,” Wonwoo groans, reaching a hand up. Minghao takes it, pulling him up.

“Careful, you’re more than halfway to fifty,” Minghao murmurs, dodging swiftly when Wonwoo feigns a kick.

“You are too,” Wonwoo snaps, falling back onto the bed.

“A year and four months,” he hums.

“Then call me hyung, you brat.”

Minghao makes a face. “I don’t think I will, Nonu-yah.” And then sticks out his tongue. Wonwoo just narrows his eyes at him, then glances back up at the ceiling. “Why are you here?”

“I can’t just miss your company?”

“We were in a car together for five hours,” Minghao says, deadpan, lying down next to Wonwoo. Their legs hang over the bed, and Wonwoo’s sure they look extremely stupid.

“Parents are a little too much,” Wonwoo just says, exhaling.

“About your job?” Minghao asks, turning his head to face him.

“No,” Wonwoo shakes his head. “They’ve made their peace with that. They want children from me now,” he laughs.

“Ah,” Minghao nods. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them I just broke up with someone, and that I wasn’t ready to be set up,” he snorts. “But now they keep asking about her and trying to get me to get back together with her.”

“Will you?” Minghao’s voice is strange, and Wonwoo can still feel his eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn to look.

“No,” Wonwoo laughs. “I don’t think her girlfriend will appreciate that.” Minghao curls his legs up onto the bed, turning onto his side. “They just moved in together, too.” Gyuri had told him at work, when he caught her napping at her desk. Apparently Saerom had way too many house plants and refused to let go of any of them, so they had to spend hours painstakingly transporting them between Saerom’s old apartment in Hwigyeong-dong and their new apartment in Yeoksam-dong. _Three whole hours_ , Gyuri’d bemoaned. _She has like thirtysomething plants._ She had said, slumped against her desk. _I think she plans to turn our second bedroom into a greenhouse._ Wonwoo had just laughed, giving her a reassuring pat on the back and made a mental note to not get plants for their housewarming.

“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Minghao asks. The question is a little odd, considering—well. Wonwoo tries not to dwell on it.

“No, and I’m not having kids anytime soon either, Mom.” That earns him a shove to his side, and he laughs, curling up his own legs on the bed, turning to face Minghao. “Are you?”

“No,” Minghao says.

It might be the low thrum of alcohol in his veins. “Mingyu,” he starts.

“Oh,” Minghao’s face crinkles a little. “We're friends. We met at school, actually," he says, and Wonwoo just nods, the story already somewhat familiar. "He was the only friend I had, that first couple months but," he shrugs, trailing off. "I think we're too alike, anyways.” He purses his lips. “Besides, I think he’s seeing someone right now. I haven’t really been home, though, so I’ve only seen glimpses of him.”

“Oh my god,” The realization crashes into him, “Soonyoung.”

“You know him?”

“Silvery blonde hair?”

Minghao’s eyes widen comically. “You know him.”

“Know him—” Kwon Soonyoung, the _bastard_. Suddenly everything makes a little more sense, and frankly, Wonwoo just can’t believe he didn’t see it before. “Yeah, he’s a friend. He lives in 315, actually,” He exhales. “Neglected to tell me he was dating my best friend’s roommate.”

“I’m your best friend?” Minghao says, and he sounds surprised.

“Is that what you’re getting from this conversation?”

“Yes,” he says, matter-of-factly. He gives him a wide grin. “So I’m your best friend,” and his tone is too giddy for Wonwoo’s liking.

“You’ve been my best friend since we were six,” Wonwoo says plainly. Nothing could change that, he doesn’t say.

Minghao just gives a hum of satisfaction. “You’re my best friend too.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo says, voice flat. “Thank you.” He can’t help the smile that climbs onto his face anyways.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles back, beaming, and Wonwoo is suddenly aware of the space between them, the bed frankly too small for two grown adults.

Minghao’s eyelashes are long, sweeping against his skin, and the fringes of his hair flop lightly against his forehead and onto his nose, partly obscuring his vision. That strange feeling crawls up his throat again, and Wonwoo doesn’t bite it down, this time. He reaches over, sweeping Minghao’s hair out of his face, tucking the longer strands behind his ear. His fingers brush lightly against his skin, and Minghao is warm to the touch. Wonwoo’s always liked the curve of Minghao’s ears. His palms brush lightly against his cheek, when he tucks the last strand of hair away.

“Wonwoo-yah,” Minghao says quietly, the apple of his throat bobbing. He shifts, slightly, but that just makes him closer than before, and Wonwoo has this wild thrumming in his chest, hand still hovering over Minghao’s face, not quite touching.

The shrill ring of a phone jolts them both, and Minghao nearly falls out of bed fumbling for his phone. Wonwoo sits up, too, adjusting his glasses back on his face. Minghao looks at his phone screen and frowns.

“Sorry,” Minghao apologizes. “It’s work. I’ll be right back.” Wonwoo just nods, suddenly feeling the rush of warmth that’s been crawling up his face. Minghao heads out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He’s not sure what that was. It felt a little like—like before. Minghao comes back in, though, before he has the time to process it.

“Sorry,” Minghao just says again, eyebrows furrowed. “They wanted to get a progress pic of the mural.”

“It’s a national holiday,” Wonwoo says incredulously. “They can’t make you do work.”

“Technically, Chuseok doesn’t start until tomorrow,” Minghao sighs, throwing his phone onto his bed and flopping back down next to Wonwoo. “It’s okay. They just wanted me to email them a picture of the mural,” he says, turning his phone around in his hands.

“That’s easy enough,” Wonwoo notes, lying back down on the bed, propping his feet on the edge of the frame.

Minghao nods absently, scrolling through the photos on his phone. “I think you were right.”

“I’m sure I was,” Wonwoo tilts his head. “But about what?”

“Sometimes work feels like it’s ruining what I like to do,” he says quietly, pressing his face into the mattress.

“Did they ask you to change something?”

“No,” Minghao shakes his head. “Nothing like that. They gave me some thoughts on what they wanted, but I had free creative reign.” he laughs, but it’s hollow. “I don’t know. People commission me because they like the things that I’ve done, but I can’t be sure that they’ll like the next thing I do, so I feel like I have to—I don’t know—change it to fit their preferences, too.”

Wonwoo doesn’t quite know what to do, so he places a hand on the back of Minghao’s neck, threading his hair through his hands, and Minghao visibly relaxes under his touch. “Are you happy?”

Minghao lifts his head and blinks at Wonwoo. “It didn’t used to matter—before,” he says. “I was doing this—making art—for me, and it didn’t really matter if anyone else liked it, because I liked it. But now—it’s—people value my skill, for some reason, and I don’t want to let anyone down.” Minghao huffs. “It also doesn’t help that I can’t just quit halfway if I don’t like it, because now it’s not just for fun, it’s what I need to do for a _living_. Pay _rent_.”

Wonwoo just strokes his head, running his hand through his hair, and Minghao turns his head on his side, closing his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing to make something that you think someone will like,” Wonwoo says softly. Minghao looks at him with a half-lidded gaze. “Obviously I don’t think you should make art that you hate,” he clarifies, “but—I don’t know—art is collaborative. It won’t make your art any less authentic, or less you.” Wonwoo ponders, “Writing is like that too. Things like feedback and input—it's essential to the process. It doesn't erase who the author is.” He rubs his thumb along the base of his neck, and Minghao's eyes flutter a little, nodding. “Besides, if you need someone’s opinion on something, you have me.”

Minghao giggles, eyes curving into a smile, “Hope is all we have?” He says, teasing.

Wonwoo just glares at him, “Nevermind.” He says, and ruffles his hair into his face. “And it was ‘hope keeps us going’.”

“I’m joking!” Minghao cries out, sitting up in bed and brushing out his hair with his fingers. He looks down at Wonwoo, and tilts his head until he faces him. “Thanks, Nonu-yah,” he says, genuine. “I wish—” He starts, and then trails off, biting his lip and looking away.

“What?”

“No—it’s—it’s nothing.”

“Why would you say that when you know it’ll just make me want to know more?” Wonwoo complains, sitting up and tilting his head into Minghao’s space until he looks at Wonwoo.

“I wish I had you when I was in Paris,” Minghao blurts out, and then looks away.

Wonwoo blinks at him, and he's trying to make sense of it, but it _doesn't_ —it doesn't make sense, and Minghao pointedly avoids his gaze. Something brews in his throat, and he tries to swallow it down. It feels biting. 

“Did you like Paris?” Wonwoo asks instead, trying to keep his voice clear. 

“I did but—it was so lonely.” Minghao frowns. “I was so homesick.” He inspects his fingernails for the fourth time. “I really loved the school and the program but—“ he trails off. “Even after I met Mingyu and made more friends, I’d be homesick. I’d missed my parents, my friends,” Minghao sighs, pulling up his knee to his chest and resting his chin on top. “You.”

It feels like a splash of cold water dumped over Wonwoo's head, jolting him out of this hazy trance. It doesn't make any sense. “You didn’t make it sound like you would miss me,” Wonwoo can’t help but say. He knows it’s harsh, and Minghao visibly winces, but Wonwoo had—he had spent years, getting over this, and he’s pretty sure he’s still not over this and Minghao—

“I’m sorry,” he just says softly.

“Minghao,” he says, swinging his leg off the bed. “What is this?”

“What?”

“Are we friends?” Wonwoo throws up his hands. “Are we—” He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You made it clear that you only wanted to be friends, so what is this?”

Minghao swallows. “Am I not allowed to miss a friend?” He bites back.

“You can miss your friends all you want, as long as you don't stop being in their lives completely.” Minghao doesn’t say anything to that. “You left me, and then you come back like nothing ever happened—”

“I didn’t leave you—I left to go to school—”

“No—” Wonwoo cuts him off. “You left to go to school, and then you barely respond to my texts, and my calls. And I’m worried as fuck about you, because you’re something like nine thousand kilometers away. But everyone tells me that you’re fine, and that you pick up _their_ calls and respond to _their_ texts, and I realize it was just me, because I had—” He bites his tongue, turning away. "And now you come back, and we don't talk about it, and you tell me that _you miss me—"_ his voice cracks. 

Minghao doesn’t answer him, and Wonwoo feels a little bit dizzy, the back of his eyes burning. He stands up abruptly, and the room spins a little. Clearly, he has not gotten over it.

“I’m gonna go,” Wonwoo heads for the door. “For what it’s worth,” he turns back, and Minghao meets his gaze with shining eyes, and Wonwoo has to wrench himself away. “I missed you too.”


	2. can i try again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha....i am So Sorry...i truly did not mean for the posting to be a month late. work was kicking my ass and also i was ultimately unhappy with what i originally had written so it was frustrating all around. please accept this [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21rl5YWeDDVzneqCeFLUNR) as my humble peace offering.

* * *

* * *

Wonwoo’s twenty-third birthday is two weeks before Minghao’s flight, and his friends make a point to throw him a party that would make him as drunk as possible. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for him, Seokmin and Seungkwan are in charge of the party planning, and also the drinks, and also happen to be incredible lightweights, forgetting their mission after a few shots, instead choosing to yell sweet things at one another until they ran themselves exhausted.

“They’re so cute,” Minghao appears next to him, swirling a glass of wine. Wonwoo didn’t even realize wine was supplied, and he has an itching suspicion that Minghao brought it himself, glass included. Seokmin and Seungkwan were more or less knocked out on their sofa, hands around one another, and occasionally yelling ‘beautiful’ and ‘wonderful’ out loud.

“I thought this was my party,” Wonwoo complains jokingly, nursing his beer. Minghao had ushered him straight from work to Seokmin’s (and also now Seungkwan’s) apartment, feigning an air of nonchalance.

Wonwoo had seen through him, anyways, because Minghao is a terrible liar, and they’ve both known each other far too long to not be able to read each other like the back of their hands, but Wonwoo pretended to believe him, and Minghao pretended to not notice Wonwoo smiling the entire trip there.

After the obligatory surprise and singing and candle-blowing, he received a pleasant smearing of cream across his face, courtesy of Seokmin, followed by kisses to his cheeks by Seungkwan and Chan both.

“Are you as cute as them?” Minghao gestures at them, currently curled up onto each other. “I don’t think so.”

“Speaking of cute,” Wonwoo perks up, “where’s Chan?”

“Er,” Minghao mumbles. “I think I saw him go somewhere with Hansol.”

“Oh,” Wonwoo says, then the realization hits him like a truck. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” Minghao nods, taking another sip of his wine.

“I guess we saw this coming,” Wonwoo says, crinkling his nose and taking a gulp of his beer. “Hansol’s a nice boy, at least.”

“You sound like a parent.”

“I’m old now,” Wonwoo bemoans, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Get a grip,” Minghao pats his shoulders. “And don’t let Jeonghan-hyung hear you.”

“Jeonghan-hyung is an immortal being. Age does not matter to him.” Wonwoo says firmly.

Minghao gives him an amused look. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Well either Jihoon or Jeonghan-hyung has to be an immortal being, and they’re in a symbiotic relationship,” Wonwoo ponders.

“Alright, that’s enough beer for you.” Minghao takes the cup from Wonwoo, despite his protests.

“That’s only my third one,” Wonwoo laments, a little lightly buzzed.

“Clearly one too many.” Minghao notes, putting his cup down on the table. “Let’s get some air.”

Wonwoo pouts, but trails behind him. They head through the balcony, and the warm summer breeze is soothing on his face.

“Why are you leaving me on my birthday?” Wonwoo frowns, petulant, leaning against the railing, staring down at the empty street below them. Maybe he did have one too many drinks.

“I’m not leaving you on your birthday. I’m leaving in two weeks,” Minghao says gently, coming up next to him.

“That’s too soon.”

“You could come with,” Minghao says lightly, corner of his lips curling, like he could be joking.

“You know that I can’t,” Wonwoo says softly.

Minghao’s smile drops a little, but he bumps into Wonwoo’s shoulder with his own, nudging his elbow gently at his side. “You mean you won’t quit your full-time job to go gallivanting in Europe with your best friend?” Minghao says, joking. His eyes are bright when he turns to Wonwoo, grin tugging at his mouth. “I think I’ll have to revoke your best friend privilege for that.”

Wonwoo laughs, pushing lightly back at his shoulder. “What does best friend privilege entail? Having to listen to you snore through the night?”

Minghao fakes an exaggerated gasp. “I do not snore, take that back.”

“How do you know what you do when you’re asleep?” Wonwoo hums.

“Why do you sleep in my bed if I snore so much?” Minghao quips back.

“Personal space heater,” is all he says, before pressing his ice cold fingers to Minghao’s warm cheeks. Wonwoo feels something get caught in his throat, but he manages to push past it.

Minghao hisses, but doesn’t move from his spot, letting Wonwoo press his fingers to his skin. “It’s the middle of summer,” he complains, and Wonwoo tucks his hands back into his arms, resting it on the railing.

“Exactly,” Wonwoo says indignantly. “How am I supposed to survive through the rest of the year without my personal space heater?”

Minghao laughs, if not a bit airily, and a weird silence lapses between them, the question hanging in the air among the lights of the urban sprawl.

“You really can’t come?” Minghao asks, pulling at the sky. There’s no lightness in it, this time.

“I mean, I could ask my supervisor,” Wonwoo frowns, “But I don’t think she’ll like me taking two weeks off work barely a month into the job.”

“It’s just—” Minghao says, before catching himself and biting down the words. Wonwoo knows the end of that sentence, anyhow. They had spent months coming up with itineraries and lists of places to go and restaurants to try in the two weeks that they had, before everything came barreling in and put that to a halt.

“I know, Hao,” Wonwoo says, placing a hand on top of Minghao’s and giving a small squeeze. “I can visit when it’s more settled at work,” he says, hooking their pinkies together and pulling his hands up so their thumbs meet. “Promise.”

“Okay.” Minghao turns to give him a smile, shaking their pinkies together. “How’s work?” He shifts in his spot, leaning his weight onto one side, towards Wonwoo.

Wonwoo leans forward on the railing, looking out at the cityscape. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” Minghao parrots.

“I mean,” Wonwoo says, pulling at his fingers. “The people are nice, and I get to sit in an air-conditioned office, so it’s probably a couple steps above ‘just fine’, I think.”

“And the work?”

“Work,” Wonwoo says, and trailing off, shrugging, letting his hands drop over the railing. “It’s good. I show up, I do what I need to do, and I go home.”

“Shouldn’t it be more than that?” Minghao frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Minghao waves his hand airily. “I thought you liked finance and administration stuff.”

“I do like it,” Wonwoo says slowly. “And I’m good at what I do. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Minghao says, rather loudly, and shoots Wonwoo an apologetic look when Wonwoo flinches. “Sorry—I just mean—shouldn’t you be doing something you really like?”

“What would that be?” Wonwoo replies, confused. Minghao just stares at him, open-mouthed, the fierce look in his eyes still blazing. “Not all of us have landed a prestigious position at a fine arts school in Paris,” Wonwoo adds, not unkindly, and Minghao’s eyes soften a bit before tearing away.

“Writing,” he says, after a moment.

“What?”

“You’ve always liked writing,” Minghao says softly, fingers twisting in his hands. “I’ve always liked your writing.”

Wonwoo opens his mouth, before closing it again. “That was in high school,” he finally settles for.

“You were part of the school paper in college,” Minghao points out, “and you took all those literature classes, even when you didn’t have to.”

“It’s a hobby, at most,” Wonwoo says, the humidity of the summer air crawling into his throat and making its place there.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Minghao just says, grasping Wonwoo’s hand, and Wonwoo feels overheated all at once.

“What are you saying?” Wonwoo continues, staring at the fingers intertwining in between his own.

“I’m saying—” Minghao frowns, “You can do what you really like. You don’t have to do this.” He gestures vaguely.

“I’m not being forced to do anything,” Wonwoo says, eyebrows furrowing. “And it’s not that easy—what kind of writing would I even—you’re acting like I have a manuscript ready or something,” Wonwoo says, the words coming out louder than he intends.

“I’m not—” Minghao lets out a frustrated noise, “It’s just—you don’t have to work at a job that you hate in a field you don’t care for.” Wonwoo must make an expression at that, because Minghao’s eyes widen slightly and his lips part, as if to take it back.

“I don’t hate my job, I don’t know why you keep—” Wonwoo says, wrenching his hand away and almost regretting it, as the cold immediately bites back. “Look,” he says, letting out an impatient noise. “Maybe this isn’t what I thought I would be doing in high school,” he sighs, “but I’m not in high school anymore.” He says, a little quieter. “And I’m not you.” Minghao is silent, even if he continues to look at Wonwoo with wide eyes, hands still hanging limply by his side. “And that’s fine with me. It’s just a part of growing up.”

Minghao is quiet, for a long time, before taking in a deep breath. “I—”, he starts, but the words die in his throat, and he swallows. “I’m just worried about you,” he says, small. “Who’s going to wake you up in the morning when you sleep past your alarm now?” He says, laughter getting caught in his airway and coming out a little choked.

Wonwoo turns to him, sees the lights of the city reflected in his eyes, and feels a burning in the back of his throat that follows, before turning away. “I haven’t slept through my alarm in a month,” he says lightly, knocking their shoulders together. “You don’t have to worry about me, anymore, Haohao.” He points at the neon birthday cone hat still stuck on his head, and Minghao lets out a small giggle. “I’ll be fine,” he adds, the remaining two words left unsaid.

He gives him a long contemplative look, and then nods, acquiescent. “Okay,” Minghao says softly, closing his eyes and leaning against the balustrade. Wonwoo thinks about the way his eyelashes flutter against his skin, and how he does that even in his sleep, like he’s never quite at rest.

“Do you want to go back inside?” He asks, when he catches his thoughts trailing to the slope of Minghao’s nose and the curve of his lips. “I think I hear Jeonghan-hyung teasing Chan about Hansol.”

Minghao’s lips curl up in a smile, and he opens his eyes, meeting his gaze. Wonwoo takes a few steps back, holding his hand out, blinking at him.

Minghao grins, eyes turned into crescent moons. “Yeah,” he says, and takes his hand.

* * *

“You aren’t going back with Minghao?” His mom asks, packing the last of the tupperware into a bag.

Wonwoo tightens his grip on his duffle bag and shakes his head, giving his mom a small smile. “Work emergency, I need to be back early,” he lies. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“Alright,” his mother frowns, but packs another jar of kimchi into the bag and zips it up, handing it to him. “At least wait for your father to wake up. He can drive you to the station.”

“I really have to leave soon, mom. The taxi’s already coming, anyways.” He says, checking the time. His train was leaving in 45 minutes. He had miraculously managed to get a ticket in the midst of the post-Chuseok frenzy, probably because very few people wanted to take the 7AM train right after the holidays.

“Would you have even said goodbye to me, if I wasn’t awake?” She clucks, giving him a stern look.

“Of course I would’ve,” he mumbles, as she pulls him in for a tight hug and smacks him on the back. “Tell dad and Bohyuk bye for me,” he adds, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“You can stay and tell them yourself,” she grumbles, but gives him a smile anyways as she waves him through the door.

“Bye, mom.”

“Come visit more often,” she calls out, as the taxi pulls up on their street. “Bring Minghao with you, too.”

He just shoots her another smile before ducking into the car.

Later, when he’s settled in the train and halfway to Seoul, his phone vibrates with a single message.

 _Myungho is here. Did you forget to tell him?_ He reads the message once over, before locking his phone and closing his eyes, resting his head back on the seat and falling asleep.

* * *

“Why are you back early?” Soonyoung greets him, and Wonwoo is momentarily taken aback. He glances once over at the apartment, and then at the door number.

“Why are you in my apartment?” Wonwoo asks, bewildered.

“Ran out of eggs,” Soonyoung says, sheepish, holding up a plate of sunny side up eggs and toast.

“And you decided to eat here too?” Wonwoo muses, dropping his duffle bag in front of his bedroom door and taking the bags of food to the fridge.

“There’s no room to eat on my dining table,” Soonyoung complains.

“I thought you were going to stay with your parents until tomorrow?” Wonwoo asks, stacking the tupperware containers into the fridge.

“My cousins were visiting from Bucheon and I didn’t wanna put anyone out of a bed,” Soonyoung says, yawning a little. “I’m going back later today before they leave.” He says, stretching his arms high above his head. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he points out.

“Hmm?” Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his minigame of fridge tetris, trying to figure out if he could feasibly fit everything and still close the door.

“Why are you back early?” Soonyoung repeats, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth. “Mingyu said you and Minghao were coming back tomorrow?”

“Speaking of Mingyu,” Wonwoo whirls to him. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Soonyoung flushes under his gaze, eyes immediately dropping to his plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says nonchalantly. “You’re avoiding my question,” he clamors.

Wonwoo successfully manages to tuck away the last container into a corner in the fridge, closing the door without a hitch. He plops himself down in front of Soonyoung, leaning his head on a propped up arm. “Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung lets out a small puff of air, “He’s really tall,” is all he says, before cutting up another piece of egg and placing it on his toast.

Wonwoo laughs, “Is that all?”

“I mean,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “He’s sweet, he can cook, he texts me good morning every day, he’s definitely not bad to look at, and sometimes he’ll sit there and listen to me talk for half an hour straight without interrupting because that’s just who he is,” He swallows, and looks at Wonwoo meaningfully. “And he’s also _really tall_ ,” he says seriously.

Wonwoo snorts, and Soonyoung breaks out into a grin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Soonyoung makes a blank face. “You’ve been _sulking_ ,” he gestures vaguely in Wonwoo’s direction, “for like the past month. I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

Wonwoo mouth drops. “I haven’t been _sulking_ —” he begins before he shuts his mouth again. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

Soonyoung just laughs, boisterous. “I’m not blaming you.” He takes a sip of his (Wonwoo’s?) sikhye. “I just thought you might need some time to yourself.”

Wonwoo makes a noncommittal hum. “I think I’ve had enough of that for a while.”

Soonyoung pushes his plate slightly off to the side, leaning back in his seat and regards him with a look. “Yeah?”

Wonwoo stares at the condensation dripping down the side of the drink, watches as the single droplet runs larger as it traces down the side of the can, collecting into a pool on the table. “Do you think I was wrong?” He asks, after a long moment.

Soonyoung blinks at him, “About what?”

He reaches across the table to take a swig of Soonyoung’s drink, and it runs sweet and cold down his throat. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “It’s been years,” he pulls up his leg to his chest. “And he apologized, but...” he trails off, chewing on the corner of his lips. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

Soonyoung props his chin under his hand, staring at Wonwoo. “That’s stupid,” he says, after a while.

“Me?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Time doesn’t dull pain.” he purses his lips. “It just makes it less frequent.”

Wonwoo just leans forward on the table, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I was angry,” he says, the words coming out defeated. “I didn’t realize I was.”

“I think it’s okay to be angry,” Soonyoung gives him a contemplative look. “But I don’t think you want to be angry anymore.”

“Yeah?” Wonwoo asks, but it comes out flat.

Soonyoung quirks his lips. He wraps his hands around the can, wiping away the condensation, rivulets collecting on his thumb. “It’s hard to forgive when you’ve been hurt,” he says slowly. “But I think you want to forgive him.”

Wonwoo just lets out a huff of air, half smiling, slumping down in his chair. He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his palms against them, until all he can see are stars on the back of his eyelids. A rush of cool runs through his head, tingling down to his ears. “So what now?”

“Talk about it,” Soonyoung suggests, leaning back in his chair.

“I am talking about it,” Wonwoo points out, hands dropping to his lap.

“Not to me,” Soonyoung says. Wonwoo cracks an eye open, and Soonyoung is giving him a knowing look with kind eyes, a soft smile on his lips.

* * *

* * *

“Don’t you think this is cool?” Minghao asks, running a finger over the raised pink skin on Wonwoo’s knee.

Wonwoo scrunches his nose, not turning his eyes from the screen, “No, it hurt like hell. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“That was like five years ago,” Minghao scoffs. “I mean this,” he says, and rolls up his uniform slacks. When Wonwoo turns around, Minghao has the cuffs of his pants pulled all the way up to his thighs, sticking out his leg at Wonwoo.

“It was seven years, actually. Doesn’t change how much it hurt.” Wonwoo frowns, pausing his game. “What are you trying to do?”

“Look!” Minghao points determinedly at his knee, and Wonwoo leans in, squinting at his knees. He really had to get glasses, one of these days. Sure enough, there’s a thin silver line running across Minghao’s skin, too.

“Is that from that time you fell off the monkey bars because you thought you could walk on them?”

Minghao scowls. “Shut up. I could walk on them, I just slipped.” He narrows his eyes threateningly when Wonwoo makes a face, but then scoots over closer, bringing their scars next to one another. “It’s from when you got this,” he says, and pokes at Wonwoo’s knee.

Wonwoo furrows his brows. “That can’t be true.”

Minghao drops his mouth. “Why not?”

“I was the injured one. You had to walk me back to my house.”

Minghao just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “That’s because you were crying.”

“I was seven,” he protests, glaring.

“And I was six,” Minghao counters, sticking his tongue out, and then dodges Wonwoo’s swing with ease. “Anyways, isn’t it cool? That it’s in the same place?” He asks brightly, knocking their knees together. “It’s like a soul bond.”

Minghao just gives Wonwoo a warm smile, looking down fondly at their scars. Something strange tugs in his chest, and he looks down too. “Knees are usually the first thing to hit the floor when you fall,” he finally says, string pulling taut.

Minghao makes a face, but then slaps a hand over Wonwoo’s knee, warm and comforting, grinning widely. “The universe is telling us that you’ll never get rid of me.”

Wonwoo looks at Minghao, a wide smile and flushed cheeks, then down at their knees, before turning away. “Why would I want to?” Wonwoo mutters under his breath, unpausing his game. He doesn’t know if Minghao hears him.

* * *

There’s an envelope with his name on it in his mailbox the next day. Handwriting doesn’t change, Wonwoo thinks as he opens the envelope, sealed neatly around edge.

A note is inside, along with two tickets.

_”Meet Vincent Van Gogh” Exhibition_   
_Woojung Art Center, Seoul_

_I’d meant to give you this. I know he’s your favorite. Happy belated birthday. And I’m sorry._

* * *

Minghao had painted him, once. The spring of his third year, when Minghao took a class on portraits, and sat him down in their kitchen, back against the window, tubes of oil paints scattered across the table and paint covered towels strung across his lap. The window was cracked open and the breeze tousled his hair, occasionally poking his eyes.

“You can move, you know,” Minghao had said, amused, when Wonwoo subtly tried to blow out the hair stabbing his eyes.

“I thought you couldn’t,” Wonwoo frowned, still not moving. “I thought that was like, the whole thing about portraits. Sitting still for six hours at a time.”

Minghao had just shrugged, glancing over at him and back at the canvas. “I mean, a little. But the whole thing about portraits is also trying to figure out how to capture someone in their entirety in a single frame.” Minghao pursed his lips, frowning at the canvas and going to wipe at a section with his towel. “The movement of a hand in one moment, or how they hold themselves in a particular way.”

Wonwoo let his shoulders fall a bit, turning slightly so that he was facing Minghao. “You think you can capture me while I get up and make lunch?” He asked, breaking out in a grin.

Minghao had laughed, bright and loud, ringing through their apartment. “It’s not like I don’t know what you look like,” he just said, going back to his painting with another stroke, smile still on his lips.

Wonwoo had gotten up and cobbled together a lunch from their leftovers, all while Minghao painted, occasionally looking up from the canvas with a musing look at Wonwoo, and then returning to his painting with a focused determination.

When it was all said and done, their plates cleared, the windows long closed, Minghao’s hands were splattered with paint, and the sun had set far below the horizon.

Wonwoo got up from his chair, and Minghao shifted the painting so he could look at it too. It was a burst of color, an abstraction of a human form, eyes a golden warm yellow, cheeks ice cold blue, the background so vividly cherry red it dyed his vision pink. And Minghao had signed it proudly, the only trace of white on the entire canvas.

“Is that what I look like?” Wonwoo had asked, the expressionistic shapes jumping out at him.

“It’s how I see you,” Minghao had replied, words soft. Wonwoo had turned to him, curious, but Minghao’s expression flashed by quickly as it came, and he just smiled widely at him, baring his teeth, before saying, “A pain in my ass.”

Afterwards, when they had cleaned their hands and table and floor of the remnants from their paint scuffle, Wonwoo plopped down next to Minghao on their couch, facing the painting. “I like it,” he said.

“Yeah,” Minghao had said, dropping his head onto Wonwoo’s shoulders. “Me too.”

* * *

Wonwoo knocks on the door, and he thinks it feels like years before the door finally opens.

“Wonwoo,” he says, eyes wide.

He holds up the tickets in his hand. “Would you like to come with me?”

He stares at the tickets, and then at Wonwoo, and nods once, slowly.

Wonwoo feels all of the tension rush out of his shoulders at once. “Saturday?”

He just nods again, still not tearing his eyes away from Wonwoo.

“Okay,” Wonwoo nods, taking a few steps back towards his door. “I’ll see you, Minghao.”

* * *

* * *

“Don’t come back only speaking French and eating baguettes,” Wonwoo says, flopping down on Minghao’s bed, stripped almost bare except for bedsheets and a single pillow. They had spent the day moving Minghao’s things back home, packing them away in boxes and then shoving them unceremoniously into the closet. He’s in one of Minghao’s old t-shirts, a bright purple shirt with indistinguishable lettering all across the front, because Changwon’s summer is unforgivable, even with the windows wide open.

“We eat baguettes here,” Minghao points out, lying down next to him, shoulders barely touching.

Wonwoo waves his hands airily. “You know what I mean. Remember your roots.”

Minghao just laughed, light. “My roots are in Anshan, technically.”

Wonwoo narrows his eyes at him. “Do you get a rise out of disagreeing with me?”

“Maybe I do,” Minghao says, closing his eyes, lips curling up in a small smile.

Wonwoo makes a disgruntled sound. “You better savor it while you can, then.”

Minghao’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Don't say that,” he says and laughs a little, but the words come out thick, caught in his throat.

Wonwoo takes his hand, intertwining with his own, and gives it a light squeeze. Minghao squeezes back, affirming. He strokes his thumb, soothingly, hand soft and warm underneath his own. “You’ll do great,” he promises.

Minghao takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “I guess.”

“And you won’t be alone,” Wonwoo says, turning his head to look at him. Minghao opens his eyes, slightly, returning his gaze. Wonwoo gives a small smile, squeezing his hand again. “I’m just a phone call away, anytime.”

Minghao turns fully, on his side, so that he’s curled towards Wonwoo. “What if it’s 4AM?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Wonwoo makes a face, “Alright, maybe not anytime.” Minghao bursts into laughter, turning to lie on his back, pulling at their hands. “I’m kidding,” Wonwoo says, a bit softer, tugging Minghao back. “Of course you can call at 4AM. I’ll nap at work, or something.”

Minghao’s still smiling, laugh lines running deep. “Thanks, Nonu-yah.”

Wonwoo hums. “Always.” He runs his free hand through the waves in Minghao’s hair, deep and black and curling at his neck, and Minghao leans into it. “You’ll have to find someone else to dye your hair though,” he murmurs. His hair is still nice and soft and silky, even through the rainbow of hair colors they’ve subjected it to over the years, probably something to do with the fancy conditioner that he doesn’t let Wonwoo use.

“I don’t want to,” Minghao says, petulant, shifting so that he burrows himself into Wonwoo’s side. “No one else will understand my artistic vision,” he mumbles into Wonwoo’s chest.

Wonwoo laughs and Minghao shifts his head up, grinning. His smile is bright, eyes sparkling, and his nose is just the faintest pink. Wonwoo feels something welling up in his throat, and he has to tear his gaze away, swinging an arm over his eyes as he feels the burning prickle behind his eyes.

“Wonwoo-yah,” Minghao says, and there’s a slight tremble in his voice.

“Don’t.” Wonwoo says, and the words come out choked. There’s a shift, and Minghao’s hand is warm on his cheeks, tugging at his arm and pulling it away from his face.

“Hey,” Minghao says softly, and his thumbs graze gently against his cheeks, tapping until Wonwoo finally opens his eyes, Minghao propped up just above him, hair falling into his face. “I’ll come back.” His fingers trace the curve of Wonwoo’s ears, tucking away the stray pieces of hair. “Promise,” he says, leaning forward just slightly so he can press the faintest brush of his lips against Wonwoo’s temple.

And here’s the thing: Wonwoo always runs cold, hands never quite warmed all the way through, and Minghao is warm, always has been, but Wonwoo’s never felt cold, because he’d always had Minghao’s hand in his own for as long as he could remember. When he was seven and Minghao’s name was still unfamiliar on his tongue, his hands had been the first thing Wonwoo had seen, pulling him up even through scraped bleeding knees. When he was eighteen and they sat on the floor of Wonwoo’s room, staring at the clock and wondering what it would be like to be older, Minghao’s hands accompanied the quiet relief. He doesn’t remember the scores on the screen, but Minghao’s smile is etched into his mind, along with the warmth of his thumb, gentle strokes across his palm.

Wonwoo wonders what it’ll be like, when he’s twenty-three. If he’ll freeze, without him.

He rests his hands on the back of Minghao’s neck, and angles himself slightly closer, and Minghao looks down at him, honest.

Wonwoo presses his mouth to Minghao’s, and it’s soft, and he’s altogether reminded of lying on the beach, the restless sea breeze and the lax warmth of the sun. A moment passes, two, and it’s just Wonwoo’s lips on Minghao’s, until Minghao leans in and he’s kissing him back, earnestly, like he does everything else. Wonwoo can feel his heartbeat against his chest, wildly out of sync with Minghao’s own. Wonwoo cards his fingers through his hair, pushing them closer, until all he feels is Minghao’s hands still nestled in the curve of his cheek, his chest angled into his, the slight tangle of their legs in the bed they’ve outgrown.

It’s not just warmth anymore, but a fire, that races through him. It rushes through the tips of his body, and he wonders if it’s just Minghao that he feels, or his own blood pumping erratically in his veins, overheating. Minghao slips his tongue into his mouth and coaxes out an embarrassing whimper that Wonwoo is sure may haunt him for the rest of his days, and shifts such that he’s practically on top of him, pressing down on his hips, thighs burning against his own.

The summer heat should be too much, the sticky slide of their skin should be unpleasant, but Minghao is a cool summer night breeze, fresh deodorant and that fancy shampoo, and Wonwoo thinks that should be a contradiction, somehow, that Minghao is a warm embrace and a cool breeze, all at once. And there’s a tug at his chest, an indeterminable ache, wondering how exactly it is that Minghao seems to fit into the places Wonwoo leaves.

That pulls him out of it, partly. He pulls away and Minghao just opens his eyes, curious, a slight furrow in his brows. He almost slips under again, when Minghao’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips, the bob in his throat almost like an enchantment.

“Hao,” Wonwoo breathes out. “I’m—” he swallows, and he looks up, and Minghao’s eyes are wide, and he realizes that Minghao has known him for as long as they’ve been alive, and he knows the exact words caught up in Wonwoo’s throat, and it feels like something is crushing down on his chest as Minghao freezes in his hold, expression going blank before it shutters completely.

“Don’t.” Minghao pushes himself up and the warmth rushes out with him like a shockwave. He sits up until all Wonwoo can see is the curve of his back, the way his shoulders stretch out the shirt he’s had since they were teens, pulled taut at the seams. “Don’t say it,” Minghao says, quietly, like a plea.

“Hao,” Wonwoo pushes himself up, too, until they’re sitting side by side. He places a hand on Minghao’s, but Minghao just stiffens, and then pulls his hand away and Wonwoo doesn’t have to wonder, anymore. “Oh.” He lets out a breath, a quiet realization, and the air in the room seems to go out with it.

Minghao winces at the sound, like he’s been hurt. Wonwoo doesn’t quite understand why that is. He still won’t turn to look at him, and it feels like someone is squeezing all the air out of his lungs.

“Did you always know?” Wonwoo asks, because he doesn’t seem surprised, and what’s one more blow anyways when it feels like his chest is cracking irreparably underneath his ribs. Minghao’s knuckles turn white gripping at the covers underneath them. “That I'm in love with you.” Wonwoo says, because the words are spilling out of the cracks, a bursting dam. And maybe they have been this entire time, he realizes, because there’s never been a time when it wasn’t true.

Minghao looks at him, and his gaze is tender, almost too much to bear. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, and he looks away, like Wonwoo is too much to bear. “What if we’re miserable?”

Wonwoo can’t help the laugh that escapes, a short sharp bark. “Do I make you miserable?” He asks, and for a brief second, he’s terrified of the answer.

“No!” Minghao turns to him, firm. “But—” he drops his gaze. “What if we can’t make it work? You know? What if—” His voice comes out small, and he’s shaking, but Wonwoo doesn’t— _can’t_ reach out, now.

“What if what?” Wonwoo falters, the words coming up empty. “What does that have to do with—” he opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He feels his nails digging half-crescents into his palm. “Do you?” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, and it rings so pathetically hopeful.

Minghao stares at him, eyes shining. He swallows, like he’s afraid. “What if we’re not happy?” He says instead.

“Hao,” Wonwoo says softly. “Answer me.”

Minghao bites down on his lips. “What if I lose you?”

“You won’t,” Wonwoo says, like a plea.

“How do you know that?” Minghao says quietly.

“What do you mean—it’s—” Wonwoo stretches the fingers of his hand, running it through the hair flopping into his eyes, erratic. “It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me, Hao.” He feels his voice crack, and Minghao winces, again, like he’s been hurt. Like _Wonwoo’s_ hurt him. Like it’s _his_ chest crumbling underneath his ribs. “Don’t you know that?” He repeats. “Don’t you—” he falters.

“That’s not the point—”

“What _is_ the point?” Wonwoo’s voice rises, incredulous.

“The point is that—” Minghao turns to him, eyes falling. “I’m _leaving_.”

“What does that matter?” Wonwoo asks, a little hysterically. “Nothing has to change,” he says, hopefully, helplessly.

“Hasn’t it already?” Minghao asks, but it’s not a question, hope running on empty.

And Wonwoo can’t answer, because Minghao is flying halfway across the world and Wonwoo still has to show up to work tomorrow, and they’re in the bedroom that Wonwoo has known like his own since he was seven, but they’re not seven, or seventeen, either. They’re too big for the bed they’re on, in clothes dug out from the back of the closet that don’t fit quite right anymore, no longer the people they used to be.

“I’m sorry,” Minghao just says quietly, hands clenched into fists on his lap, and Wonwoo realizes he means it.

There’s an ache in his chest, akin to soft skin against harsh pavement, and he supposes that happens, when you’ve been constantly exposed to heat—that it feels warm until you get too close, and you come away burned.

* * *

“I think this is my favorite painting of his.” They’re stopped in front of a projection of [_The Sower_](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/31/The_Sower.jpg). Minghao turns to him, slightly, before looking back at the painting in front of them.

“I thought it was _Café Terrace_ ,” Minghao says, after a moment. “You had that poster on the wall, next to your desk.”

Wonwoo glances over at him briefly, but Minghao is still looking up at the projection, the warm sun basking him in a golden light. “Things change, I guess.” Wonwoo says lightly, and Minghao lips pull slightly into a smile.

“Why this one?” They stare up at the projection, a wave of blue and violet and orange bespeckle down at them.

“The field isn’t drawn from a reference,” Wonwoo says. “He just spent so much time painting wheat field after wheat field when he lived in the countryside. And then he painted this, except he decided to make the field blue and orange and the sky yellow and green.” The thick paint strokes in the projection shift, creating a rippling effect across the field. “He wrote to Emile Bernard about it, too. ‘I couldn’t care less what the colors are in reality.’”

Minghao blinks up at the projection, eyes scanning over the billowing field and the warm sun. “I wonder how long he spent in the countryside, if he knew it so well he could paint it in abstraction.”

“I don’t think it’s just that.” Wonwoo stares up at the painting. “I think he just really loved it.”

“Is that different?”

Wonwoo gives pause, but doesn’t turn. “You don’t think so?”

Minghao turns to him, and Wonwoo meets his gaze. “I don’t think you would spend your days painting something if you didn’t love it.” He swallows, not tearing his eyes away. “And I think you love something, you’ll know it like the back of your hands.”

Wonwoo looks at him, not sure what he’s searching for. “Do you think he loved it?”

“Yeah,” Minghao says, turning his eyes back to _The Sower_. “I think he did.”

* * *

* * *

The airport is stark white walls and uncanny polished floors. A bleak mood hangs in the air, accompanying the late summer showers, the sky so thick and humid that it’s comparatively like a breath of fresh air inside. Wonwoo takes a deep breath once they pass the automatic doors, the stickiness on his skin slowly dissipating. He pushes the cart alongside Minghao, slightly trailing behind his parents.

“I can take that.” Minghao frowns, reaching his hands out for the handle. It’s the first thing he’s said all morning. Wonwoo stares at his hands, maybe for a moment too long because when he looks up, Minghao can’t quite meet his eyes, hands still tensed in the space between them.

“Sorry.” Wonwoo says, letting go of the cart and taking a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Minghao frowns, eyebrows furrowing again. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Sorry.” He says instinctively, and Minghao’s mouth twitches, like he can’t decide whether he should yell or laugh. Instead, he says nothing.

“Boys,” Minghao’s mother calls from near the ticket counter doors. “We’ll go on ahead okay?” They nod, and she gives them a warm smile, before pushing his father through the doors, along with their luggage.

They walk towards the doors in silence, Minghao matching his pace to Wonwoo’s, even when he decides to drag his feet and take small deliberate steps across the tiles.

They stop a few meters from the door, and Minghao spins the luggage cart next to him, shifting his weight onto one feet and leaning against the suitcase.

“I have your shirt,” Wonwoo says, reaching into his backpack for the bright purple t-shirt he had worn home. “Sorry.”

Minghao opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Just hang onto it,” he says, expression blank again.

Wonwoo drops the shirt back into his backpack, and it feels strangely heavy on his shoulders.

  
He belatedly realizes that maybe the best time to have left was when he parked the car, or maybe a few minutes ago, when his hands didn’t have anything to hold onto anymore. There was no reason for him to be here. The silence is as thick as the air outside, like they hadn’t left at all.

“Call me when you land?” Wonwoo asks, trying to sound nonchalant, like his hands aren’t sweaty and cold and shaking in his pockets.

Minghao looks up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time that day.

“Yeah.” His lips curl into that warm, familiar smile. “I’ll see you.”

* * *

“Do you still hate coffee?” Wonwoo asks, once they’re stopped outside of the cafe a couple blocks from their apartment building.

Minghao turns to him, a little surprised. He’s been doing that a lot, today. Like he doesn’t expect Wonwoo to say anything to him at all.

“It’s grown on me,” is all that Minghao says.

Wonwoo gives him a small smile. “They have good tea here too. I think you’ll like it.”

He returns his smile. “Okay,” Minghao nods, and holds the door open.

Minghao orders first, a cup of green tea that Wonwoo can’t quite pronounce, and frowns when he thinks Wonwoo isn’t looking when Wonwoo orders an iced latte with extra caramel.

They manage to pull a window table, and the weather in Seoul is pleasant, in between the cusps of the summer heat and the autumn storms.

“You can say it,” Wonwoo tells him.

Minghao just raises up an eyebrow, head tilted questioningly. “Say what?”

“Tell me how bad iced drinks are for my health.” Wonwoo gestures. Minghao’s lips quirk into a full smile, the first Wonwoo’s seen the entire day.

“They are,” Minghao says, shaking his head and taking another sip of his tea, smile still lingering on his lips. “Bad for your digestion,” he adds. “The extra sugar too.”

Wonwoo snorts, huffing out a laugh, and Minghao does too, and it rings nice in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo begins. Half of his drink is gone, and the ice runs cold through his muscles, jittery. Minghao looks up at him, and there’s something like realization and sadness, all at once. “I was angry, but—” he looks down at his cup, wrapping his fingers around it until it was all he could feel. “I was cruel, and you didn’t deserve that.”

“Maybe a little,” Minghao just says, pulling at his fingers.

“Not even a little,” Wonwoo counters, and Minghao looks up at him, surprised again, before giving him a small smile.

“I’m sorry, too.” Minghao is gentle, eyes honest.

“Just—can I ask?” Wonwoo leans forward, shifting in his seat, and Minghao looks at him with wide earnest eyes, nodding. “Why? I thought—” he trails off.

Minghao frowns, chewing on the inside corner of his lips, shifting his eyes outside for a moment before looking back again. “I don’t know. It’s just—” he pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “I couldn’t just act like everything was normal. I’d be an asshole if I acted like nothing happened,” he looks annoyed, briefly. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Wonwoo just blinks at him. “So…”

“I know,” Minghao huffs out, frustrated. “I thought it would help us move on or something. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. I was twenty-two, and stupid as shit.” Wonwoo can’t help but laugh, and Minghao lets out a tired smile. “I wanted to—to call you,” he admits. “But I’d be an even bigger asshole if I called you out of nowhere after that, wouldn’t I?” He says, the last part faltering, like he isn’t sure.

“Maybe,” Wonwoo says. He takes another sip of his drink, and lets his hands fall flat across the table, tapping rhythmically to the low beats overhead.

“I kept going back and forth on whether or not I should, because I—I missed you.” His voice falls at the last part, and he pauses. “But then three years came and went, and I didn’t,” he laughs, hollow. “And then you literally show up on my doorsteps, and I was just so fucking happy to have you back. I didn’t think—” He runs a hand through his hair, and it falls, disheveled. “I didn’t think about what it would be like for you,” he says, soft. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“We can’t just sit here apologizing to each other all day.” Wonwoo notes, amused.

Minghao’s lips curl into a smile. “We could try.”

“Do you think we need to?”

“I hope not.”

“Hopeful now, are we?” Wonwoo muses. Minghao laughs. “One more apology, I think.” When Minghao opens his mouth, Wonwoo just shakes his head. “I promised you wouldn’t be alone. I’m sorry.”

Minghao just stares across the table at Wonwoo, and he feels warm under his gaze. “It wasn’t loneliness,” he says, slowly. He leans forward, reaching out to take Wonwoo’s hand, weaving their fingers together. He rubs a thumb across the palm of his hand, and it’s intimately familiar, the warm weight of Minghao’s hand in his.

* * *

* * *

“Fuck, Minghao, slow down,” Wonwoo pants breathlessly, clutching at his side in pain.

“We can’t miss the sunset,” Minghao yells back. He frowns when he sees Wonwoo, doubling back towards him. “What use are your long legs if you can’t run,” Minghao hisses, grabbing at his hand and pulling him along.

Wonwoo just lets himself be tugged across the sand. “In my defense,” Wonwoo says in between gasping breaths. “It’s fucking impossible to run through sand.”

Minghao just rolls his eyes and drags him along. Minghao’s always been more athletic than him, but it’s still baffling to watch him run through sand like a race track. “Hurry, we need to head back before Baek-sunsaengnim realizes we’re missing.”

“I don’t know that this is worth her wrath.” Wonwoo groans. Baek Jiheon was a kind woman, but also a force to be reckoned with. “Busan’s not even far away from Changwon. We can come back,” he tries convincingly, but Minghao doesn’t slow down for a second.

“Are you kidding?” Minghao says, indignant. “Are we even seeing the same sky right now?” He gestures wildly at the scene in front of them. It _was_ admittedly stunning, the Busan coastline against the rapidly changing sky, vividly pink and blue and purple, orange rays from the setting sun where the sea meets the horizon. An old local had told them that skies like these were rare, usually only on the precipice of a big summer thunderstorm, and Minghao had all but lit up, breaking away from their group and dragging Wonwoo along with him just to catch a glimpse of it.

They finally reach the shore, by some miracle, and it’s even more stunning with no buildings or structures in front of them. Wonwoo leans over, balancing his hands on his knees, panting. Minghao seems unfazed, only the lightest sheen of sweat over his face. He’s staring at the sunset, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide and shining. Wonwoo straightens up and looks too, and it does look like something out of a painting, an amalgamation of vivid colors that seems impossible in nature.

Minghao pulls out his phone to take pictures, but just frowns at the screen. “The colors aren’t right,” he mutters, mostly to himself, adjusting something in the settings that Wonwoo doesn’t understand. Wonwoo pulls out his phone, too, and Minghao is right—the colors too bright in some places, distorting the hues. It’s disappointing, comparatively, through the tiny screen.

Wonwoo takes several steps back, pointing his phone at Minghao. “Hey,” he says, and Minghao turns around, curious, and Wonwoo snaps a picture. He’s backlit by the sunset, orange and purple radiating around him, almost obscuring him completely in shadow. Still, there’s the slightest glimpse of light on his face, and it illuminates his surprised expression. It’s not the best picture—the low light makes everything just a bit hazy, and the colors aren’t quite right. But Minghao looks cute, Wonwoo thinks, before realizing and beating the thought back with a stick.

“How do I look?” Minghao calls out.

“Terrible,” Wonwoo manages to say, snapping another picture anyways, and he’s in part thankful for the low orange glow obscuring his face.

Minghao just returns a rude gesture before turning back to watch the sunset. Wonwoo laughs, and goes back to join him. They watch, as the sun dips below the horizon, taking the colors with it.

* * *

Minghao has always liked waking up obnoxiously early. That, at least, hasn’t changed. It’s never bothered him much, because Wonwoo’s a heavy sleeper and Minghao rustling around the room has never woken him up. Now, though, it seems that Minghao has grown a habit of knocking on his door at 7AM.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and opens the door, and Minghao just smiles brightly, dressed in a colorful sweater and paint-splattered jeans, and Wonwoo wonders if it’s a fashion decision or actual paint splatter. “Chun Kyungja has an exhibition at SeMA, and it’s the last weekend. Do you want to go?”

Wonwoo blinks blearily at him, looking from his face to the brochure, and then back to his face again. “Now?” He asks, voice raspy and full of sleep.

Minghao stares at him, wide-eyed, and then suddenly looks away, pulling at the bottom of his sweater. “No, uhm—I don’t think the museum is open yet I just—well I—maybe at like noon?”

Wonwoo’s half-asleep brain processes that Minghao is being just a bit odd, but he can’t quite figure out why.

He just yawns, nodding sleepily, making half an attempt to smooth down his hair sticking up. “Yeah, that sounds really good.”

“Okay, I’ll come by.” Minghao beams, though he doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and then turns back down the hallway.

“Minghao,” he calls out, and he turns around, curious. “My number hasn’t changed.” he says, and Minghao’s face is blank for a second. “You can just text me, next time,” Wonwoo adds.

And then realization must dawn, because his face goes bright. “Right,” he says, laughing a little. “Sorry,” he adds, though he doesn’t look sorry at all, humming something all the way back to his own door.

* * *

“What?”

“What?” Minghao returns, slightly bewildered.

Wonwoo turns to him, clicking his tongue. “Why are you staring at me?” He raises one eyebrow.

Minghao blinks, and then breaks his gaze, glancing just past Wonwoo. “I didn’t—I thought you didn’t want an ear piercing?” He says, voice oddly pitched.

“Oh,” Wonwoo notes, raising a hand to thumb at his earring. He had put it on this morning on a whim, when it glinted from his dresser. Soonyoung had picked out this particular earring for him, claiming that he was doing him a favor, whatever that meant. He doesn’t particularly want to explain to Minghao the not-so-coincidental timing of getting his ears pierced three years ago. “Changed my mind. Are those real glasses?” He asks instead, poking at the lens just to make sure they’re there.

Minghao frowns, leaning away from Wonwoo’s hands. “Yes,” he says, indignant. “Don’t do that. You could’ve poked my eyes out.”

Wonwoo just drops his hands. “You look good in them,” he says, because he was thinking it, and it’s true. They’re thin gold wire glasses, round, and they frame nicely on his face. Minghao gives him a slightly alarmed look, and then turns away.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, still not looking at him.

“Wait,” Wonwoo pauses. “You didn’t wear them when you drove us back to Changwon,” he says accusingly.

Minghao rolls his eyes, but smiles anyways. “I don’t usually need them, but I figured—” He gestures, “—art museum.” He shrugs. “And I got us there in one piece, didn’t I?”

Wonwoo stares at him, aghast. “I’m taking the bus back later,” he turns his head back to look at the artwork.

Minghao’s laughter is short, and then turns abruptly silent. Wonwoo can feel his stare on him, and he has a terribly hard time focusing on the exhibit at all, so he turns back around, and Minghao meets his eyes with a look of surprise. “Is there something on my face?”

“I just—you look nice, too.” Minghao murmurs, before turning away, ears pinking for god-knows-why. Something warm crawls in his chest, and now it’s Wonwoo’s turn to stare at Minghao and he supposes that maybe an art museum is maybe a strange place to stare at someone, when all you are is surrounded by art, but—well, nothing else has been making much sense lately, anyways.

* * *

They walk around a little after lunch, in part because they’re too stuffed full with meat to feel anything but sluggish, and in part because Minghao refuses to impart the smell of barbeque in his car, even if it’s more than a decade old. The weather’s still nice, if not a bit breezy, but the sun is still shining high above them, the leaves just beginning to turn brown. They’re walking side by side, and Minghao’s arm brushes against his every so often, but neither of them make any effort to move.

“How’s your mural coming along?” Wonwoo asks.

Minghao lets out a small sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. “Good, I think.” He purses his lips. “I don’t know anymore.” He stares out at the street in front of them. “I actually haven’t gone to work these past couple days,” he admits.

“Art block?”

“A little.” Minghao frowns. “I think I just need to take another look at it and I’ll probably figure out what to do, but I’m a little scared, I guess.” He laughs, tired.

Wonwoo reaches out to squeeze at his arm reassuringly. “Do you want to go take a look now?”

“Together?” He asks, confused.

“I mean, you are my ride home.” Wonwoo jabs good-naturedly. “Is that alright?”

Minghao blinks rapidly, then breaks out into a wide smile. “Yeah. Let’s go,” he says, and takes Wonwoo’s hand, pulling him along.

The office is a little ways out, in Bucheon, but the weekend traffic is pleasant, so it takes them only twenty minutes to get out there. The mural is even larger than Wonwoo had imagined it to be, taking up a significant portion of the office. There’s a tarp on the floor and a small ladder but, other than that, everything is mostly cleared of supplies. Minghao’s painted a large portion of it blue, but the golden yellow streak is still prominent against everything.

“Oh, Hao. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not finished,” Minghao mumbles, scanning the mural with quick motions.

“What did you want to do with it?” Wonwoo asks, following his eyes.

“I wanted it to feel bright,” he gestures widely at the wall. “But not to the point that it would be an eyesore to someone who had to look at it every day, you know?”

“I don’t think it could ever be an eyesore,” Wonwoo protests lowly, and Minghao gives a small smile, but continues.

“I was thinking, maybe just bright complementary colors next to each other? So that they’re still bright and colorful but they can also neutralize each other, at a quick glance” He says rapidly, eyes darting back and forth, like his brain is running too fast for his mouth.

“Like _The Sower_.” Wonwoo notes.

Minghao pauses in his tracks and turns to look at Wonwoo. “Exactly like _The Sower_ ,” he says, breaking out into a wide grin and looking back at the mural. “Except he had smaller strokes of complementary colors next to each other so maybe I should—” he runs off to the corner, pulling out a notebook and a pen and writing in it.

“What are you doing?” Wonwoo peers over his shoulder.

“Writing it down so I don’t forget this when I come back,” Minghao says, biting at his pen. “Though he also had yellow and green next to one another,” he ponders, mumbling under his breath and scratching at his notebook some more.

“Do you want to stay and paint?” Wonwoo asks.

Minghao looks up from his notebook, eyes dimming. “I can come back. I’ll drive you home first.”

“Actually,” His voice gets caught in this throat, coming out strange and twisted. “Can I stay with you?”

Minghao’s expression softens, minutely. “You want to?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, and Minghao’s gaze feels strangely heavy. “Is that okay?”

“Of course, but—” Minghao rushes to exclaim, eyes wide, smile uncertain. “I mean it’s not—it’ll probably be boring. You’re literally watching paint dry. ” He says, a slight furrow of his brow.

Wonwoo shrugs. “I’ve always liked watching you paint,” he says, the words slipping out too fast for his brain to register, and he almost regrets it until Minghao just beams at him, cheeks pink, and that warm feeling rises up in his chest again, and he’s not quite sure what to feel.

* * *

* * *

“This is the worst experience of my entire life,” Wonwoo gripes, clutching onto the roof handle as Minghao slams the gas at the yellow light. Minghao had gotten his driver’s license a week ago, on his 18th birthday, and decided that the best way to celebrate it was to take his parents’ car to Busan with Wonwoo and break all the possible traffic violations on the way there.

Minghao rolls his eyes, even as his grin turns menacing.

“Wonwoo-yah, look.” Wonwoo turns around, teeth clenched, and Minghao just smiles brightly before letting go of the steering wheel. “No hands!” He says cheerfully.

“Xu Minghao!” Wonwoo barks, clutching at his seatbelt. Minghao laughs, big and loud, before resting his hands back on the wheel, smile still wide on his lips.

“Relax, I passed my driving test, didn’t I?”

“You’re a menace to society,” Wonwoo says wearily, as Minghao speeds up to pass another car on the road.

“You’re so dramatic,” Minghao sighs. He drops a hand from the wheel and reaches over to thread their fingers together. He gives it a light squeeze, thumbing across his knuckles. “Don’t you trust me?”

Wonwoo relaxes, minutely, into his seat. “Both hands on the wheel,” he mutters, but makes no motion to disentangle their hands. He gives a tentative squeeze back, and Minghao just smiles, hand still stretched across the seat.

* * *

Wonwoo rings the doorbell, then steps back, foot tapping anxiously against the floor. He’s late, he knows he is, and the gift is shittily wrapped in some old holiday paper that he found in the back of his closet. He decided to throw it in the bag the clerk had handed him, but he supposes it wouldn’t hide the shitty wrapping once out of the bag. He doesn’t get any more time to contemplate it, because the door opens in a flurry, Minghao smiling wide, slightly out of breath.

“Long trip here?” Minghao greets, in lieu of a hello, and moves aside to let Wonwoo in. He’s got his glasses on again, hair mostly tied back except for a few curled strands framing his face.

Wonwoo glares at him, but follows through the doorway. “Happy housewarming,” He hands him the basket, a single potted plant surrounded by cleaning supplies. Minghao takes it with both hands, carrying it in his arms down the hallway.

“Is this a real plant?” He peers curiously into the basket.

Wonwoo nods. “It’s a heartleaf philodendron. My coworker helped me pick it out. She said just be careful not to overwater.” Saerom had reassured him it was an easy plant to raise, not too fussy with sunlight.

Minghao beams. “It’s beautiful.” He sets it gently onto the kitchen counter. “Thanks, Wonwoo-yah.”

“I mean, she did most of the work, if I’m being honest.” Wonwoo scrunches his nose.

“Maybe I’ll name him Nonu.” Minghao ignores him, petting gently at the waxy leaves hanging off the plant. He just laughs when Wonwoo makes a face. “I’ll take good care of him.” He reassures. “What’s in the bag?” He points at the bag still clutched tightly in his hand, eyebrows raised, curious.

It’s only now that Wonwoo realizes the slight absurdity of bringing something like this to a housewarming, not to mention going out of the way to go to Myeongdong in the middle of rush hour traffic and back. He feels a warmth creep up his neck, and finds it strangely hard to meet Minghao’s eyes.

“It’s for you.” Wonwoo sticks out his arm, the gift dangling from the bag. Minghao takes it from him, warm fingers briefly brushing against his hands.

“For me?”

“You can consider it a birthday gift,” Wonwoo drops his hands to his side, feeling weirdly empty with nothing to hold.

“My birthday’s not for another month,” Minghao points out, eyebrows raised.

“A gift for all the birthdays I’ve missed, then.”

“Wonwoo-yah,” Minghao’s face drops immediately into a frown, eyes wide and a little sad. “That’s not—”

“I know,” Wonwoo says, softly. “We’re good, okay? Just take the present.”

Minghao shoots him a small smile. “Can I open it now?”

Wonwoo feels sweat bead up on his neck again. He had just planned to drop it off along with all the other gifts, leaving it for Minghao to find later.

“Don’t you have houseguests to attend to?” Wonwoo points at the door leading to the living room, where Soonyoung was audibly yelling in excitement at something.

“Mingyu’s with them,” Minghao waves his hands airily. Sure enough, Mingyu’s voice rises to join Soonyoung’s. “So can I open this?” He asks eagerly, eyes wide, lashes batting, and lips pursed into a slight pout.

“Fine,” Wonwoo concedes, sighing.

Minghao brightens, taking the box out of the bag and setting it on the counter. “I like the snowmen. Very fitting.” He remarks, corner of his lip twitching. He slowly peels away at the wrapping paper, using his fingers to pry open the tape, like the paper is delicate and priceless.

  
Wonwoo feels a strange feeling settle into the bottom of the stomach, as Minghao unwraps it in front of him. He stops to read the note that Wonwoo had tucked in between everything, and he’s silent for a long time, the note held delicately between his fingers, eyes scanning over the words.

Wonwoo knows it shouldn’t take this long to read two sentences, and Minghao’s smile has dropped from his face, something strange and unreadable taking its place. “It’s a film camera.” Wonwoo says, breaking the silence. “You always liked taking pictures on your phone so I figured.” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the clock on the wall. Each tick of the hand feels three times as long as it should.

“‘ _For when the thing you love feels too overwhelming. Hopefully you can find comfort in this._ ’” Minghao reads, voice low and tender.

Wonwoo inwardly cringes at hearing his words out loud but pushes past it. “I know you’ve been busy with work lately,” he rambles. “Having something else to focus on was good for me, so I thought it might be the same for you. I have a similar camera, if you have any questions.”

They lapse into a still silence and something twists in Wonwoo’s guts, so he brings himself to turn back to Minghao. He meets his eyes and it’s wide and shining, tears spilling over the edge.

“Oh god, you hate it,” Wonwoo says, horrified. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize—Mingyu said it was a good idea but I can always return it—”

Minghao shakes his head and smiles, something in between a laugh and a cry escaping his throat. “No,” he cracks. “No, I love it.” He reaffirms with a wide smile, even as another drop rolls down his cheeks.

Wonwoo can’t help but reach over, gently taking off his glasses to thumb away at the wetness, settling his palm against the curve of his cheek. “This feels like a strange response to getting a gift that you love,” he remarks, amused.

Minghao huffs out a small laugh, still not dropping his smile. He brings his hands up to place over Wonwoo’s, fingers stroking over the back of his hands. It’s warm, on top of Wonwoo’s.

  
Minghao takes a step closer to him, nestling his cheek into Wonwoo’s hand before turning and pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

Wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat. “Hao.”

“I love it,” Minghao pauses, and it feels deathly quiet, as he presses another kiss to the cuff of his wrist. “I always have.”

It’s Wonwoo that threads their hands together, because he’s always liked the way Minghao’s fingers fit in between the gaps of his own. It’s warm, like he remembers it to be. And it’s Minghao that closes the distance between them, catching his lower lips between his own. And it’s soft, like he remembers it to be.

And Minghao feels like all the right memories, like the Busan sea at sunset, like the cool relief of tile floors in a Changwon summer, like a hand pulling you up in the midst of scraped knees and blurred tears. And it’s like a strike to his heart, because he knows what it’s like for memories to just be memories, and he doesn’t think it’s possible for him to lose Minghao a second time.

“Hao,” he breaks from their kiss, and Minghao opens his eyes, giving him a hazy look that almost makes his mind go blank again. He closes his eyes to collect himself, a breath to calm his overeager heart. “I can’t do this again,” he says, and it takes all of his willpower.

Minghao’s face falters, but his grip around Wonwoo doesn’t loosen. “I know. You won’t have to.”

Wonwoo swallows. “What if you have to leave again?” He says, and he hates how small he sounds.

Minghao leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back to face him again. “It was never just about that,” he says quietly. “I was scared.” He admits. “I was afraid that we had what we had because of—of proximity. That it was just because I happened to live across the street from you, that we happened to grow up together. I didn’t know if—” he frowns. “If it would all fall apart, once you weren’t forced to be near me anymore.” Wonwoo opens his mouth to protest, but Minghao shakes his head. “I know it’s stupid but—” He furrows his brows. “It felt like something was changing, in the end.”

“Like we were growing apart,” Wonwoo finishes, quietly. Minghao’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I was afraid that—that making this _real_ , would only make it worse.”

“And now?”

“Now,” Minghao repeats. “I don’t know. I used to think it was fate, you know. That the universe brought you back to me.”

“Used to?”

Minghao rubs circles in the palms of his hand. “I don’t think it matters, in the end. I know that I love you. That’s more than enough, isn’t it?”

The hands clutch tight, warmth enveloping entirely. “Yeah.” He steps closer. “It is.”

Wonwoo’s the one to lean in this time, his kiss tentative, a question. Minghao returns it, his kiss certain, an affirmation.

It’s strange, Wonwoo thinks, that you can never go back in time, to when you were seventeen, or twenty-two, but there will always be someone that makes him feel the way he did when he was twenty-three, somehow too old for everything bursting at his seams but somehow not old enough to know how to contain it.

Wonwoo is twenty-six, and he learns that he doesn’t freeze.

He leans in closer, deepens their kiss, and Minghao lets go of one hand to trace the shell of his ear, thumbing at his earring before resting his palm on his cheek, a tender caress. The other arm snakes its way around Wonwoo’s waist, pulling him closer, tighter, and it’s searing hot everywhere that Minghao touches. He turns Wonwoo gently around and the counter digs into his back, but it’s hard to care when Minghao slots his thigh in between his legs because all of a sudden, it’s not enough, all the places they’re pressed against each other, and he needs more. He slides his hand beneath his shirt and Minghao is burning skin against his fingertips. He lets his hands traverse the length of his chest, relishing in the way Minghao fits neatly underneath the curves of his palms, but he feels his brain grind to a screeching halt when he reaches something hard and cold and _metal_.

“What the fuck,” he murmurs against Minghao’s lips, and he can feel when Minghao laughs against his mouth.

“You’re not the only one with new piercings,” Minghao says, smug, and swallows down a groan from Wonwoo.

“What the fuck,” he just repeats, and Minghao just presses kisses against his lips until Wonwoo forgets his train of thought entirely.

“Have you gotten the house tour?” Minghao asks lowly in his ear.

“You’re so fucking lame,” Wonwoo laughs, and Minghao joins in too, light and melodic.

“You love it.” Minghao just says, pressing another kiss to his cheek, maneuvering them down the hall again.

“I do,” he says, even if Minghao already knows it.

The mattress dips under their combined weight as Minghao leans over him, knees on either side of his hips, and his gaze is tender, like he’s seeing Wonwoo for the first time. And maybe he is, and maybe Wonwoo is seeing him for the first time, too.

Maybe there’s something to be said, about the way their limbs don’t hang awkwardly off the edge of the bed, about how their clothes fit right on their shoulders, about the way they’re starting to learn about each other, about the people they’ve become.

The warmth blankets over Wonwoo, as Minghao leans in close, so much so that he can’t take him in all at once—just the way his lashes flutter in one moment, or the twitch of his lips in another. He’s reminded of the way portraits are supposed to be, and wonders how it’s possible to choose what features to capture, what parts to put on canvas. Would Wonwoo be able to choose? In between the wide warmth of Minghao’s eyes when he’s earnest and eager, or the soft crescent moons when his smile is so wide it takes over entirely. In between the soft curve of his nose, a gentle slope rounded to a delicate stop, or the soft peak of his ears, a sharp point worn impossibly smooth. In between the way his lower lip slightly juts out in concentration, or the wide heart-shaped way he grins. Wonwoo supposes it’s a good thing, then, that he’s never been good at painting.

And maybe Minghao was right, that the distance would have killed whatever they had. There’s no way to know that. But Wonwoo knows that he loved Minghao when he was an arm’s reach away and he loved him when he was nine thousand kilometers away. And maybe what they had was something like a soul bond, the universe pulling them together again and again. There’s no way to know that, either, the existence of an unseen fate. But he knows that, scars or not, soul bond or not, they would go to the ends of the earth to find each other, again and again.

There’s a lot he doesn’t know and that he won’t know, but he knows that today, he will kiss Minghao until they’re both breathless. And tomorrow, he will show him the photographs he took, and then ask to take one of him. And he knows that eventually, down the line, he’ll call his mom and tell him that he’s bringing Minghao home. He knows that he loves Minghao, and _it is_. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading and sticking with me until the end!  
> as always, you can find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jungnoonoo)


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